#absolute predicted flop

[abstractdogwolfthing]

Dreamtale Nim ref sheet that I won’t even follow 100%

Anyway my version of Nim!! A Stag Tree God!!

Uses she/he pronouns, is a Bigender Intersex deity (no one is surprised at me making yet another genderqueer headcanon)

The lil pastel blobs at Nim’s feet are the apple twins!! I put them there for size comparison.

If you wanna know more just use the ask thingie, I can only manage to ramble if I’m prompted to :,3c (accompanied by related doodles because I can)

The original Nim and Dreamtale itself belongs to jokublog

NM’s ref sheet

Dream’s ref sheet

Baby Apple Twins’ ref sheet

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A joke profile on a sugar daddy site turns serious when @TimeIsMoney starts paying—and praising—you. What begins as harmless fun spirals into obsession after one night in his hotel suite leaves you aching, ruined, and wanting more.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: daddy kink, age gap, sugar baby stuff, praise, rough sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, money kink, dirty talk, power dynamics, he’s obsessed, reader gets absolutely ruined, aftercare, light choking, finger fucking, reader gets called good girl a lot

𝐖𝐂: 4,000

PART 2

It starts as a joke.

Wine bottles rattle as Nobara kicks the recycling bin closed with the heel of her foot, the sound of glass clinking against cheap plastic barely audible over the laughter echoing through your tiny, overstuffed apartment. Maki flops onto the couch beside you, stretching out like a cat, her legs hooked over the armrest and one arm draped across her eyes. The air smells like takeout and wine, sweet and familiar, the kind of scent that clings to memories. Finals are looming like storm clouds, rent is due in a week, and the textbooks on the kitchen table are collecting more dust than notes. The weight of it all sits heavy in the background, but for now, there’s laughter—loud and warm and so completely alive it makes you forget that you’re broke. That you’re stressed. That everything feels impossible sometimes.

“I’m telling you,” Nobara says as she refills her glass, the wine sloshing close to the rim. “Sugar daddies are the answer. Tuition? Handled. Rent? Done. Textbooks? Bought by some old man who just wants to stare at your feet and be told he’s a good little pay pig.”

You nearly choke on your drink, laughing as you wave her off. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

But Maki’s already pulling your laptop closer, pushing aside the half-eaten box of noodles and flicking the screen to wake it. “Come on, let’s just look. You never know.”

The three of you huddle close as the website loads, the layout exactly as tacky as you’d expect. It takes ten minutes to craft a profile that’s both over-the-top and strangely believable. You use a slightly sultry selfie from last month—nothing too scandalous, just a little cleavage and a coy smile. The bio is ridiculous: College student. Lit major. Broke but charming. Let’s make a deal. You don’t use your real name. The username you pick @YourSweetestSin is half a joke, half something that makes you snort. By the time the profile is live, you’re all laughing so hard your stomach hurts. It’s stupid. It’s harmless. You never intend to take it seriously.

But you don’t delete the profile either. Not that night. Not the next day.

The first message comes two days later while you’re curled in bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, half-focused on an essay you’re bullshitting at the last possible second. The ping startles you, the notification bouncing in the corner of your screen.

@TimeIsMoney: Hello.

That’s it. No gross pickup line. No emojis. No sleazy GIFs. Just a greeting. Curious, you click the profile, expecting a troll or someone who looks like he just escaped from a retirement home. But there’s no picture. Just a clean profile with a short bio: Professional. Discreet. Generous. It makes you snort. “Sure,” you mutter under your breath. But you reply anyway. For the bit. For the laugh. You can’t wait to show the girls.

Except it doesn’t end there. He writes back. You respond. The next message comes within the hour. Then another. And another. Each one short, to the point, polite in a way that disarms you. He asks how your classes are going. What books you’re reading. He doesn’t flirt. He compliments you, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl. It’s strange. It’s addictive. You start checking the app more often. You start replying faster. There’s something comforting about the consistency of it, about the way he always answers. Predictable. Reliable. And that’s something you didn’t realize you were craving until now.

Then, on the fifth night

I want to see you.

The message appears while you’re lying on your stomach, feet kicking behind you, chin resting in your palm. You read it three times. Your heart skips a beat, your stomach flips, and your first instinct is to laugh. This is the part where you bail, right? Where you screenshot it and send it to Nobara with a “can you believe this guy?” But instead, you’re walking to the mirror, pulling your hair over one shoulder, angling your phone just right. You pick your best push-up bra—the black one that hugs you perfectly—and snap a photo. You send it. Doll eyes. Slight pout. Your lips parting like you’ve done this a thousand times.

The response is immediate.

Good girl.

Then, a second later, another notification.

You’ve received $500.

You sit up. Blink. Refresh the app. But it’s there. Sitting in your account, waiting to be transferred. Your jaw drops. Then you scream. Then you laugh. Hard. You’re breathless. You don’t tell Nobara or Maki. Not this time.

From that moment on, it’s a blur. More messages. More requests. Nothing below the waist, not yet. Just photos. A little more skin each time. He never demands. He always asks. And he always pays.

Take off your bra. $500.

Show me your nipples. $700.

Each time, the money lands in your account within seconds. And each time, you find yourself a little wetter. A little more flushed. A little more eager to read the next message. You don’t just do it for the money anymore. You do it because his praise makes your stomach flutter. Because you feel seen. Desired. Wanted. Powerful.

Then comes the night he asks to call you. Your hands tremble as you answer. His voice is everything you didn’t expect. Calm. Smooth. Deep enough to settle in your bones and echo. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t tease. He tells you exactly what he wants. Exactly how he wants to hear you fall apart. You’re already naked when the call starts. The toy he told you to buy is buzzing between your thighs before he even finishes the first sentence. His voice doesn’t falter. He talks you through it like he’s done it a hundred times. You come so hard you see white. He pays you $1,000.

You don’t bother pretending anymore. You wait for his messages. You ache when he disappears for too long. You’re careful not to get too attached, but it’s hard not to wonder. Not to imagine what he looks like. How he might taste. How it would feel to have those hands on your skin instead of just your imagination. So when the next message comes, you already know how you’ll answer.

I want you meet you

When and where?

The hotel he books is far nicer than anywhere you’ve ever been. Just stepping into the lobby makes you feel like an imposter. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, a floral arrangement so big it probably has its own budget. Your heels click across the marble as you walk toward the elevators, your trench coat clutched tight around your body, hiding the lace beneath. You keep your head down. Pretend you belong. The nerves bubbling in your stomach are loud enough, sharp enough to echo.

He said he’d meet you in the room. Top floor. Private. You know the number by heart. You’ve read it over and over again on the message thread. Your fingers hover over the keypad outside the suite door. You press it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The door swings open almost immediately. And there he is.

Nanami Kento.

He doesn’t look how you pictured. He’s younger. Broader. Tall enough that you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. Blonde hair, glasses, expensive-looking suit. He smells like cedar and something clean and expensive. His jaw is sharp. His expression unreadable. But his eyes, they roam your body like he knows exactly what’s under your coat.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You move past him into the room. The suite is massive. Soft lighting, a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, a view of the city skyline that stretches beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. You hear the door close behind you. The lock clicks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

Your voice barely works. “I wasn’t sure either.”

“Are you nervous?”

You nod.

“Good.” He steps closer. “It means this matters.”

Then he touches you.

It’s not a grab. Not even a full reach. Just the brush of his fingers down your arm, slow and steady, his touch so light it makes your skin prickle. He looks at you like he’s reading you, analyzing every twitch, every flutter of your lashes. His fingers find the belt of your coat. He doesn’t tug. He doesn’t ask. He just looks at you.

You nod.

He undoes the knot slowly, methodically, like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t want to damage. The coat falls open. His breath catches.

The lingerie is sheer black lace, delicate enough to feel sinful. You chose it for him. You’ve sent him pictures in it before. But the way he’s looking at you now—it makes your knees weak.

“Beautiful,” he says. It’s quiet. Like he’s talking to himself.

He slips the coat from your shoulders. It falls in a soft thud at your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You crawl onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears. The sheets are soft beneath your hands, cool against your flushed skin, and you feel him watching you. Not just looking—watching. The heat of his gaze crawls along your spine as you settle on your back, your legs folding to the side, thighs tight with anticipation. He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, drinking you in like you’re art, like you’re something to be studied.

Then he begins to undress.

Each movement is precise, deliberate. He removes his watch first, setting it on the nightstand with a soft click. Then he unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, his fingers steady and sure. You watch his chest slowly come into view—firm, broad, sculpted in a way that makes your breath catch. His shoulders are wide, his waist trim, his skin smooth and golden under the low light. When he slides the shirt off and starts on his belt, your thighs press together involuntarily. The buckle clinks. The zipper lowers. And then he steps out of his slacks, revealing long legs, tight black briefs, and the hard line of his cock already straining against the fabric.

He climbs onto the bed with the kind of calm confidence that makes your stomach flip. He doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t rush. He kneels between your legs and runs his hands up your thighs, spreading them slowly, pushing them apart with the patience of someone who knows exactly what you need and intends to give it to you—on his terms. The cool air kisses your heat, and you realize how wet you already are, your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs. He hums low in his throat as his fingers hook into your panties and begins sliding them down, inch by inch.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “I can feel it. You’re soaked.”

You whimper, arching slightly as he tosses the lace aside. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you wait. He leans down, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wider, and when his mouth finally touches you, you gasp—loud, sharp, uncontrollable. His tongue strokes through your folds with slow, deliberate pressure, tasting you like he has all night. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and your back bows off the bed.

“Fuck—Nanami,” you breathe, fingers flying into his hair.

He groans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. He eats you like he means it, like it’s his mission. His tongue moves with skill, pressure alternating between soft flicks and firm, devastating licks. One of his hands slides under your ass, lifting your hips, tilting you up so he can go deeper. The other moves between your legs, and when two fingers slide inside you, you cry out.

Your walls clench around him, tight and wet, your body already shaking. He curls his fingers just right and your thighs twitch in response, your breath catching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He watches you from below, eyes dark and steady, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every desperate roll of your hips. You’re spiraling. Unraveling.

It hits fast. Hard. Your orgasm crashes over you before you can warn him, a wave of heat and light that rips through your body and leaves you sobbing his name. Your hips buck, your legs tremble, your fingers claw at the sheets—but he holds you down, mouth still on you, tongue relentless.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips slick with you. He looks pleased. Controlled. Like he could keep going. Like he wants to.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers from your cunt and bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean slowly, and you moan again, helpless, already throbbing with the need for more.

He leans over you and kisses you—slow, deep, messy—and you taste yourself on his lips. He rolls his hips against yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. Your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, and he lets you peel them down.

He’s thick. Long. Veins running along the shaft, the head flushed and already leaking.

“You want this?” he asks, voice low, rough.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you wide, filling you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. Your jaw drops, a choked moan escaping as your nails sink into his back.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

“Too much?” he breathes, pausing halfway.

“No—don’t stop. Please. Keep going.”

He groans, sliding in the rest of the way, bottoming out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So perfect around me.”

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep. His hips roll into yours, grinding with each thrust. It’s overwhelming, every drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You cling to him, moaning into his shoulder, and he presses kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “Taking me so well. My good girl.”

The praise makes your walls flutter. Your body is already on edge again, hips rolling up to meet his, chasing more.

And then you remember—

“I thought you were gonna fuck me stupid,” you pant.

He stills.

His head lifts. His eyes meet yours.

“I was trying to be gentle,” he says, his voice suddenly darker. “But if you’re going to act like a cock-drunk little slut—”

He pulls out and flips you over in one smooth motion, dragging your hips up, pushing your chest into the mattress. He thrusts back into you hard, deep, and you scream into the sheets.

“—then I’ll fuck you like one”

He doesn’t hold back now. His pace is punishing, hips slamming into yours with the kind of strength that makes the bed creak beneath you. Each thrust drives his cock deeper, harder, making you cry out with every stroke. Your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white, as your body rocks forward from the force of him. He grabs your hips tighter, pulling you back onto him, forcing every inch of him inside like he’s claiming you, ruining you. Your thoughts are gone, scattered, every one of them drowned beneath the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy things he’s growling into your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, his voice a low growl. “To be fucked like a desperate little whore? You like it like this—don’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that leaves your mouth is a broken moan, high-pitched and needy. Your legs are shaking, your pussy clenching so tightly around him that you feel every twitch of his cock. You’re drooling onto the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, from how deep he’s inside you.

He reaches down and grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your spine arches, your back flush to his chest. His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubs slow, tight circles, the pressure just right. Your body locks up.

“Oh my god—Nanami—fuck—”

“I want you to cum again,” he hisses into your ear. “Cum for me while I’m buried in this tight little pussy. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do.

It hits harder than the first time, your body convulsing around him, thighs trembling, a sob of pleasure ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you. You clench around him so hard it makes him grunt, his rhythm faltering for the first time. He curses under his breath, fucking you through it, prolonging your high until you’re left a shaking, overstimulated mess.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growls.

You collapse forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, too wrecked to hold yourself up anymore. But he doesn’t stop. He slows down, but he keeps moving, long deep strokes that fill you again and again. One hand stays on your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down. You’re gasping, moaning brokenly, your cunt so sensitive you’re already on the edge again.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna give me one more.”

His cock drags along your walls, thick and pulsing, hitting every spot that makes your vision blur. Your body is on fire. Nerves raw. Everything tightens again, too soon, too fast.

“Cum,” he demands, and the command alone pushes you over the edge.

You scream his name as your third orgasm slams into you, thighs quaking, fingers clawing at the mattress as you fall apart. Your pussy clenches so hard around him that his rhythm shatters. He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts stuttering as he slams into you one final time and spills inside you with a growl.

You can feel it—his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick, filling you up as his body presses down on yours. His breath is hot against your back. His weight grounding.

He stays like that for a moment, both of you panting, your bodies tangled in heat and sweat. Then he pulls out slowly, gently, and you whimper at the loss. You feel the slick of his release drip down your thigh.

You’re boneless. Floating. Barely able to lift your head.

He pulls you into his arms, rolls you over, kisses your forehead. His hands are soft again, soothing, trailing along your back in lazy circles.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good.”

He holds you until your breathing slows. Until the ache in your muscles fades into something warm and satisfied. Until the world stops spinning quite so fast.

Then he rises. Dresses slowly. Smooths his hair back into place. He leans down to press one last kiss to your lips.

“The room is yours until tomorrow night,” he whispers. “Order whatever you want. Rest. Recover.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Where are you going?”

He smiles. “I need to get ready for work on Monday.”

And then he’s gone.

The silence after he leaves is loud. You lie there for a while, naked in the sheets that smell like him, your body sore and aching in the best possible way. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy. Like your skin is still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he owned every inch of you. You eventually drag yourself out of bed, your legs unsteady, and pad to the bathroom. The tub is huge, the kind of thing you’d only ever seen in movies, and you don’t think twice before running the water, pouring in a generous stream of lavender bubble bath from the bottle on the counter. You sink into the warmth with a soft moan, letting the water ease the tightness in your thighs, the soreness in your hips. Every shift of your body reminds you of what just happened—of how thoroughly he fucked you, how deeply he filled you, how completely he took you apart.

You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, then dry off and wrap yourself in one of the fluffy white robes hanging by the door. You pour yourself a glass of champagne from the bottle chilling by the window and collapse onto the bed again, legs curled under you, robe slipping off one shoulder. You stare at the city lights outside the window, the skyline glowing and endless. You feel expensive. Adored. Used and treasured at the same time. The kind of full you didn’t know you were craving.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You grab it lazily, still smiling.

Nanami has sent you $10,000.

You stare.

You’re up in a flash, jumping on the bed like a maniac, the robe falling off as you laugh and squeal and spin yourself dizzy. You don’t even care. You roll across the mattress, kick your legs in the air, and scream into a pillow. Then you check again—just to be sure. It’s still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

You sink back against the pillows, grinning like a fool, and take a long, slow sip of champagne.

This is the best night of your life.

The weekend melts away in a blur of room service and luxury. You spend hours soaking in the tub, order dessert with every meal, and sleep tangled in hotel sheets that smell like him. You keep your phone close, reading and rereading every message he sends. He doesn’t disappear. He checks in constantly. Tells you how proud he is. How badly he wants you again. How he’s counting the hours until next time.

By Monday morning, you’re still sore. Still giddy. You barely hear your alarm over the buzz of your phone. You get ready for class with your phone in your hand the entire time, texting back between sips of coffee.

I need you again this weekend. Same hotel. I want you on your knees when I walk in.

I can still feel you. Still smell you. I’m not done with you.

You’re practically floating when you meet up with Nobara and Maki in the courtyard.

“You’re glowing,” Maki says. “Who are you texting?”

Nobara leans in to peek. You pull your phone away with a smirk.

“No one.”

“She’s lying,” Maki says. “It’s totally a sugar daddy. Look at her.” She jokes.

You laugh. Shrug. Say nothing.

Because they’re right. And you’re not giving up your secret that easy. The three of you head to class, sliding into your usual seats as you pull out your laptop. You open a blank doc, fingers still dancing over your phone under the table.

I want your pussy on my mouth the second I see you again.

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and set your phone face-down as the door opens.

Footsteps. A soft clearing of a throat.

You look up and freeze.

Nanami Kento walks to the front of the classroom, calm and collected, setting his briefcase on the podium like he’s done it a hundred times. He’s in a fitted suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neat and perfect.

He adjusts his tie. Opens his laptop. Looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just offers the faintest flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says smoothly. “Welcome to Ethics in Literature.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

[searchingforserendipity25]

it's a good thing conclave didn't waste any time on making the stories about catholic orders and their in-fighting. and probably i shouldn't either because i am not informed enough about it to go on at length. pls take all of this w a grain of salt.

but i know in my heart of hearts that aldo bellini is a progressive liberal jesuit, the holy father's specialest most progressive liberal italian-american jesuit.

look at him. look at his glasses. those are the glasses of a man who did his dissertation on reinterpreting loyola through a contemporary reformist lens. academic wunderkid. has sooo much beef w the editors of american jesuit weekly. possibly the events of conclave are occurring in a better more beautiful world where aldo bellini is the editor of american jesuit weekly.

the late holy father for sure was a progressive jesuit also. vr pope francis coded. and low-key set him up as a successor. for a while, that seemed nearly a sure thing in some circles.

but there is the fact. well. the fact that everyone is tired, done and tired of jesuits, progressive or otherwise.

this among other factors meant he couldn't consider him the best option, besides whatever character judgement and uncanny machievallien prediction he came up with.

adeyemi has that benedictine swag which makes his potential election particularly seem like a breath of fresh air + reliable + lots of influence. tremblay is giving dominican drip and dominican corruption. and dominican flop. his nespresso machine? it's giving dominican also.

tedesco has to be an italian-founded order member. most hypocrital salesian of all times maybe?? this is unrelated to the fact that i was nearly enrolled in a salesian primary school and the weirdly panopticon-ish playground didn't pass the vibe check. and also because: consider tedesco rising in the ranks of an order created to help migrant workers...someone kick him in the head for me pls.

who even knows about benítez. i want to say franciscan but that might be just too on the nose. cistercian?? honestly it would work well if he is also without affiliation.

this lens does make lawrence's homily being interpreted as a campaign speech more understandable (and particularly funny).

because, as far as anyone can tell, he's fully running as an independent candidate. zero platform besides - if i fuck up i'll apologize and do better and be held accountable, which is more than any of you probably would.

and because he stands alone, he can be held accountable. he can belong to all, and not one faction only. as far as anyone can tell, he's burning bridges with bellini and rocking the status quo.

he is speaking to/from a place of frustration with institutional inertia and factionalism, he is using his position as dean to bravely promote a platform for internal change in the curia, he is offering doubt as an alternative to certainty, he is pulling an absolute wildcard move.

pity he didn't mean it.

pity the the only order lawrence is interested in joining is the most hardcore discalced carmelite experience possible.

you know how some people look into luxurious real estate listings like it's porn? that's lawrence w tiny monasteries. the sort of minuscule organization with not enough people for management to be necessary. too small for politics. as close to erasure as you can get in this world: no need to be useful.

serving god by existing only to meditate on him. a narrow slant of a life, at that. barely taking up space, barely casting a shadow.

his favorite is a decrepit wreck of a place in the middle of southern spain, nowhere. no wifi no speaking aloud no possessions. no shoes no food. no nothing, only prayer. and a big big sky overhead.

maybe that will fix his issues with reaching god. if that doesn't work he'll probably just wander into the tabernas desert and become an hermit. works for some people, supposedly; plenty of order founders seem to believe so, anyway.

[sh4nksslvt]

shanks x reader with a cat-like or cat based zoan devil fruit?

sounds cool www

Claws, Cuddles, and Catnip Chaos

Shanks will do anything to win over the crew’s mischievous cat-like Devil Fruit user—even if it means competing with Benn and surviving a sneak-attack nap.

shanks x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, light romance, nap cuddles, clingy antics, catnip a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 991

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

There were exactly three things the Red-Haired Pirates learned about you very quickly:

You were a certified menace in a cat’s body.

You had zero respect for personal space—unless it was Shanks’s.

You absolutely, unapologetically favored Benn Beckman.

"She purrs for you, Benn?! I've fed her, I've scratched her ears, I even gave her that weird fish jerky from Dressrosa!"

Shanks was sulking—again—as you laid sprawled across Benn’s lap like a lazy feline sunbathing, flicking your tail with royal indifference while he casually stroked between your ears.

“She lets me pet her when she’s in a good mood,” Benn replied calmly, taking a drag of his cigar. “Maybe try not throwing her off your shoulder when she lands there mid-meeting.”

“She knocked over seven mugs in ten seconds!”

“I was clearing the table for snacks,” you muttered, not opening your eyes.

“You yeeted a map. Into the ocean.”

You rolled onto your back, belly up, tail flicking toward Benn’s arm. “Benny understands me. Right, Benny?”

Benn chuckled, slow and satisfied. “You’re a little gremlin, but you’re my gremlin.”

Shanks practically burst into flames from jealousy. “That’s MY gremlin!”

"Ownership implies consent," you said, still not moving.

“You SLEPT ON HIS DESK FOR THREE HOURS!”

“I was asserting dominance.”

Shanks’s eye twitched.

Flashback: The “Desk Incident”

You’d sauntered into the war room mid-strategy meeting, tail high, whiskers twitching with curiosity. No one questioned it. You did this all the time.

Except this time, instead of knocking over a globe or licking a compass like a weirdo, you simply walked across the table, plopped down on Benn’s open map, and curled up into a ball.

Then you snored.

For three hours.

Shanks tried to nudge you off gently at first.

You bit him.

When Benn reached over and scratched your chin, you purred like a motorboat and flopped onto your side.

"Traitor," Shanks muttered.

Back to the Present

"Alright, that's it," Shanks declared, standing on a barrel dramatically. "From now on, I'm enacting Operation: Make Cat Fall in Love with Me."

Benn raised an eyebrow. "That’s the name you’re going with?"

"YES," Shanks snapped. "Step one: catnip. Step two: fish. Step three: ultimate snuggles."

"She’ll see right through it," Benn said, but he was smirking.

You stretched and yawned loudly. “I can hear you, you know.”

“I’m not hiding it!” Shanks declared. “I’m wooing you.”

“Woo me and you die.”

“You’re saying that now,” he said, pointing dramatically. “But just wait.”

Operation: Catastrophic Success

Step one was—predictably—catnip.

You were wise to his games this time, narrowing your eyes at the sprig he dangled like a bribe.

“I’m not falling for it again.”

“Come on,” Shanks wheedled. “Just a sniff.”

“Nope.”

Shanks leaned in, holding it under your nose like a shady merchant. “High-quality, imported, no sticks.”

You hissed and batted it out of his hand.

Then you lunged and stuffed it in your shirt.

“…I said I wasn’t falling for it, not that I was above stealing it.”

Shanks blinked. “...Fair.”

Step Two: Fish Diplomacy

Shanks cooked. Personally.

The crew avoided the galley like it was on fire.

When you walked in, the smell of something vaguely edible reached your nose. Shanks stood with a crooked smile, apron inside out, face smudged with flour, and a suspiciously burnt fish in hand.

“For you.”

You sniffed it.

You stared.

“Did… did you use rum instead of oil?”

“I panicked!”

You padded over to Benn and took the jerky he always kept in his coat pocket.

Shanks’s soul left his body.

Step Three: Ultimate Snuggles

It happened completely by accident.

You were curled up on your usual sunspot near the helm, tail twitching softly as the Red Force cut through calm seas. You’d been lounging near Benn earlier, of course, but he’d gone to smoke and you felt… restless.

The sun was warm.

The wind was soft.

Shanks was lying in the hammock like a lounging idiot, one leg up, book on his face, softly snoring.

And for some reason, your legs just walked over. Your ears twitched. Your instincts went haywire.

And before you could even think, you leapt into the hammock like a heat-seeking missile and curled up on his chest.

Shanks woke with a loud OOF.

He froze.

He blinked up through his book… and found you, kneading his chest absentmindedly, eyes already half-lidded, clearly ready for a nap.

“Wha…”

“Shh,” you mumbled. “You’re warm. Good pillow.”

He nearly died on the spot.

She’s on me, he thought. She chose ME. Over Benn.

He let his arm slowly wrap around you like he was defusing a bomb. Then he just laid there, stiff as a board, trying not to breathe too loudly.

When Benn walked by and raised a brow, Shanks grinned like a victorious maniac.

“She came to me,” he mouthed.

Benn just puffed his cigar and said, “Try not to scare her off.”

“She’s purring,” Shanks whispered smugly. “She likes me now.”

“I give it five minutes before she sneezes and claws your face.”

Five Minutes Later

You sneezed violently.

Your claws came out.

“OH GOD MY NIPPLE.”

Later That Night

You sat on the railing, brushing your tail as the moonlight washed over the deck. Shanks sat nearby, nursing his dignity and some scratch marks under his shirt.

“…Still worth it,” he mumbled.

You side-eyed him. “You’re a masochist.”

“I like a challenge.”

You flicked his forehead with your tail. “You’re annoying.”

He grinned. “But you like me.”

“…No comment.”

You hopped off the rail and stretched. Then, casually, you flopped down and laid your head in his lap.

He froze again.

“…Are you trying to kill me with happiness?”

You yawned. “You’re comfy. Better than your fish, that’s for sure.”

He beamed.

“You like me more than Benn?”

“Don’t push it.”

“But—”

You shot him a glare. “I will go scratch his beard and nap in his bunk again.”

Shanks shut up real fast.

“…I’ll take the win.”

[izzih22]

them like having a tickle fight or like play fighting or something and paige bragging abt how she won

Winner Takes All

Note: some younger Paige and Azzi since y’all were begging😂

The winter sun was setting early outside the Bueckers’ house, casting the living room in a warm, gold haze.

Azzi was curled up on the couch in one of Paige’s hoodies, legs tucked under her, laughing at something dumb Paige had said — or maybe just laughing because Paige was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

They’d spent the whole afternoon goofing around — shooting hoops in the driveway, playing HORSE (which had, predictably, turned into an intense showdown), and now arguing over what movie to watch like it was a championship game.

“You just don’t have taste,” Paige said, smirking as she flopped down onto the couch next to her.

“Says the girl who wanted to watch Shrek 2 for the fifth time,” Azzi shot back, grinning.

“Classic cinema. You wouldn’t understand,” Paige said, leaning over dramatically like she was offended.

Azzi shoved her playfully, and Paige caught her hand easily, grinning wider.

Bad idea.

Because then Azzi tried to pull her hand back.

And Paige — competitive, stubborn, cocky Paige — refused to let go.

“What, you wanna start something?” Paige teased, tightening her grip just enough to challenge her.

Azzi narrowed her eyes, playful. “Maybe I do.”

That was it.

Paige lunged.

In a blur, she pinned Azzi sideways into the couch cushions, both of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

“No fair!” Azzi squealed, writhing under her, trying to get free.

“Life isn’t fair, Fudd!” Paige crowed triumphantly.

Azzi squirmed harder, trying to shove her off, but Paige was bigger — taller, stronger — and she used it, grinning wickedly as she straddled Azzi’s hips and trapped her wrists above her head with one hand.

Azzi froze, blinking up at her — cheeks flushed, chest heaving from laughing so much — and for a second, they just stared at each other, the air crackling between them.

Paige’s smile softened for half a second.

God, she was beautiful.

But then — Paige struck.

She let go of Azzi’s wrists just long enough to start tickling her sides mercilessly, fingers flying, grinning like an absolute menace.

Azzi shrieked, dissolving into helpless laughter, kicking her legs wildly.

“P-Paige! Stop! I’m — I’m serious!” she gasped, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

“You started it!” Paige said, gleeful, laughing so hard herself she was practically shaking. “Now you gotta face the consequences!”

Azzi twisted, somehow managing to get one hand free, trying to fight back. She managed to land a soft punch to Paige’s shoulder — not that it did anything.

“You’re evil!” Azzi cried, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

“And undefeated!” Paige yelled, finally flopping down next to her, letting them both catch their breath.

They laid there, tangled together on the couch, breathless and giddy.

Paige had her arm thrown casually over Azzi’s stomach, like she was staking her claim even in victory.

“I won,” Paige said after a moment, smug as hell.

Azzi groaned dramatically, covering her face with her hands. “You’re literally the worst winner ever.”

“Correct,” Paige said without shame. She turned her head to grin at her. “Say it. Say I’m the champ.”

Azzi peeked at her through her fingers, her smile helpless. “No way.”

Paige rolled onto her side, hovering over her, a teasing glint in her eye. “Say it, or I’m tickling you again.”

Azzi shrieked, trying to scramble away, but Paige easily caught her around the waist, dragging her back into her arms.

“Fine!” Azzi gasped between giggles. “You’re the champ!”

Paige beamed like she’d just won a gold medal.

“Damn right,” she said, dropping a kiss on Azzi’s lips softly before settling back against the couch, pulling Azzi tightly against her chest like she had no intention of letting her go ever again.

Azzi sighed dramatically but curled into her anyway, tucking her head under Paige’s chin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered.

Paige chuckled, squeezing her waist gently.

“I know,” she murmured against her hair. “You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

Azzi’s heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Because underneath all the bragging and messing around, there it was — that fierce, unshakable love Paige had been giving her from the very beginning.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

She just reached up and laced their fingers together, holding on tight.

And Paige held her right back, the biggest winner there ever was.

[pucksandpower]

Pinky Promise

Logan Sargeant x Vowles!Reader x Carlos Sainz

Summary: you had it all planned out — do whatever you can to make Carlos Sainz regret the day he signed a contract to replace your best friend — falling in love with both of them wasn’t in your plans, but when has love ever been predictable?

The soft hum of the air conditioning fills the hotel room as you and Logan lie side by side on top of the crisp white sheets. Your heads are close together, almost touching, as you both stare up at the ceiling. The silence between you is comfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Logan’s voice breaks through, barely above a whisper. “I still can’t believe it.”

You turn your head slightly, studying his profile. “I know. It doesn’t feel real.”

He lets out a long sigh. “I mean, I knew it was a possibility, but ... I thought I’d have more time, you know?”

“You deserved more time,” you say firmly. “Dad should have-”

Logan cuts you off gently. “Hey, no. Don’t put this on your dad. He’s doing what’s best for the team.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a frown. “But you’re what’s best for the team.”

A small, sad smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “That’s sweet of you to say, but we both know that’s not true. Not anymore, at least.”

“Logan ...”

He shakes his head, still staring at the ceiling. “It’s okay. Really. I’m... I’m grateful for the opportunity I had. Not everyone gets to live their dream, even if it’s just for a little while.”

You flop back down onto the bed with a huff. “Your dream isn’t over. This is just ... a detour.”

Logan chuckles, but it sounds hollow. “A detour to where, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But somewhere amazing. You’re too talented for this to be the end.”

There’s a long pause before Logan speaks again. “They’re saying Sainz is going to replace me.”

You stiffen at the name. “Carlos? Are you sure?”

“Nothing’s official yet, but ... yeah. Pretty sure.”

You sit up abruptly, a fire in your eyes. “Well, that settles it then.”

Logan looks at you warily. “Settles what?”

“I’m going to make his life absolutely miserable next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “Y/N, no. You can’t-”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” you say with a mischievous grin. “And I will.”

Logan sits up too, shaking his head. “Come on, you know that’s not fair. It’s not Carlos’ fault.”

“Maybe not,” you concede. “But he’s benefiting from this injustice, so he’s fair game.”

“Your dad will kill you,” Logan points out.

You shrug. “Worth it.”

“Y/N, I’m serious. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me,” you challenge, holding out your pinky finger. “I’ll even make it official.”

Logan eyes your outstretched finger like it might bite him. “I’m not letting you promise me that.”

“C’mon Logie, live a little,” you tease, wiggling your pinky enticingly.

He groans. “I’m going to get fired for conspiracy or something.”

“Well, they already fired you once,” you point out. “Can’t do it again. So let me just make this promise to you.”

Logan hesitates for a long moment before finally relenting. He hooks his pinky around yours with a resigned sigh.

“I, Y/N Vowles, pinky promise to make Carlos Way Too Many Names Sainz wish he was dead-”

“Y/N,” Logan warns.

You roll your eyes. “Okay! I solemnly swear to make his life a living hell! Better?”

“Marginally,” Logan mutters. Then, with a hint of a smile, he adds, “Okay, and I, Logan Sargeant, pinky promise to win whatever the hell I end up going to next … this is ridiculous.”

“Logan!” You gasp in mock outrage. “Don’t say that. We’re doing a ritual here.”

You tug your joined hands towards your mouth, lightly kissing Logan’s finger where it’s wrapped around yours. He mirrors the action, and you both pretend not to notice the dusting of pink on each other’s cheeks.

“Now what?” Logan asks softly as you lower your hands.

“Now we wait for the future,” you reply with a small smile, slowly detangling your pinkies.

Logan flops back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “The future. Right. No pressure or anything.”

You lie back down next to him, your shoulders just barely touching. “Hey, no pressure. Remember? We’ve got pinky promises on our side now.”

Logan snorts. “Oh yeah, because those are legally binding.”

“More binding than any contract,” you insist solemnly. “Break a pinky promise and you lose the finger. It’s the law.”

“Is that so?” Logan asks, amusement coloring his voice.

You nod sagely. “Absolutely. It’s in the Constitution and everything.”

“Which Constitution would that be?”

“The International Pinky Promise Constitution. Obviously.”

Logan finally cracks, letting out a genuine laugh that makes your heart feel a little lighter. “Oh, obviously. How could I forget about that very real document?”

You grin, turning on your side to face him. “See? I knew you’d come around to the seriousness of our pact.”

Logan mirrors your position, his expression sobering slightly. “Y/N, you know you don’t actually have to do anything, right? I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want you jeopardizing your relationship with your dad or ... or doing anything you might regret.”

You reach out, gently squeezing his arm. “Hey. I know. And I’m not going to do anything truly terrible, I promise. But a little harmless mischief to make Carlos’ life interesting? That’s fair game.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘harmless mischief.’”

You grin wickedly. “Oh, you know. The classics. Whoopee cushions. Plastic wrap on doorways. Maybe I’ll learn to play the kazoo and practice outside his hotel room at 3 AM.”

“You wouldn’t,” Logan gasps in mock horror.

“Try me, Sargeant,” you challenge.

Logan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you concede. “But you love me anyway.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. Logan’s eyes widen slightly, and you find yourself holding your breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly after what feels like an eternity. “I guess I do.”

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, but before you can respond, Logan clears his throat and sits up.

“We should probably get some sleep,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes. “Early start tomorrow.”

You nod, trying to ignore the slight sting of disappointment. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

As you both stand up from the bed, an awkward tension settles over the room. You hover uncertainly by the door, not quite ready to leave.

“Logan?” You say softly.

He looks up at you, his expression unreadable. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath. “No matter what happens next ... I’m always going to be in your corner. You know that, right?”

Logan’s face softens, and he crosses the room to pull you into a tight hug. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “Thank you.”

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his embrace. “Anytime. That’s what best friends are for, right?”

Logan pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your shoulders. For a moment, you think he might say something more, but then he just smiles and nods.

“Right,” he agrees. “Best friends.”

As you leave his room and head back to your own, you can’t help but wonder if there might be something more simmering beneath the surface of your friendship. But for now, you push those thoughts aside. Logan needs you as his friend right now, and that’s exactly what you’ll be.

Besides, you have a season of mischief to plan.

***

Carlos steps into the Williams headquarters with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It’s his first day as an official driver for the team, and he’s determined to make a good impression. As he’s led through the facility, he can’t help but notice the curious glances and whispered conversations that follow in his wake.

“And here’s our main break room,” his tour guide announces, pushing open a set of double doors.

Carlos’ attention is immediately drawn to a figure standing by a table laden with what appears to be refreshments. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight before him.

You’re wearing a pale blue apron over a simple sundress, your hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. There’s a smudge of what looks like flour on your cheek, and your eyes are sparkling with barely contained mischief. To Carlos, you look like you’ve stepped straight out of a 1950s magazine, and he’s instantly smitten.

“Ah, Carlos!” You exclaim, your voice warm and inviting. “I’m so glad you’re here. I made something special to welcome you to the team.”

Carlos approaches, unable to take his eyes off you. “That’s very kind of you, señorita ...”

“Oh, where are my manners?” You giggle, extending a hand. “I’m Y/N Vowles. James’ daughter.”

Carlos takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from your father.”

You blush prettily, and Carlos feels his heart skip a beat. “All lies, I’m sure,” you tease. “But come, you must try the cake I made. It’s a special recipe.”

Carlos allows himself to be led to the table, where a beautiful cake sits proudly on a stand. It’s frosted in a vibrant red, with delicate swirls of orange and yellow that make it look almost like flames.

“It looks incredible,” Carlos says, genuinely impressed. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

You wave off his words with a bright smile. “Nonsense! It’s not every day we get such an esteemed driver joining our team. I wanted to make something that would really ... leave an impression.”

There’s something in the way you say those last words that makes Carlos pause, but he brushes it off as nerves. After all, what could be wrong with a simple cake?

“Well, then,” Carlos grins, “I’d be honored to have the first slice.”

You clap your hands together excitedly. “Wonderful! Let me just grab a knife.”

As you bustle around, cutting a generous slice and placing it on a plate, Carlos can’t help but admire the way you move. There’s a grace to your actions, but also a hint of barely contained energy, like you’re holding back laughter.

“Here you are,” you say, presenting him with the cake and a fork. “I do hope you enjoy it.”

Carlos takes the plate, noticing how several other team members have gathered around, watching with interest. He supposes it’s natural for them to be curious about the new driver.

“Gracias, hermosa,” he says, flashing you his most charming smile. He takes a bite, savoring the sweet flavor for a moment before ...

Fire erupts in his mouth.

Carlos’ eyes widen in shock as the heat hits him full force. It’s like someone has poured molten lava directly onto his tongue. He coughs, struggling to catch his breath as tears spring to his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” You ask innocently, though there’s a glint in your eye that suggests you know exactly what’s happening.

Carlos tries to speak, but all that comes out is a choked gasp. He reaches for the nearest glass of water, downing it in one go, but it does little to quell the inferno in his mouth.

Through the haze of tears, he sees you watching him, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. And despite the agony he’s in, Carlos can’t help but think you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Hermosa,” he finally manages to croak out between coughs, “I’m touched you tried to make a cake in honor of my nickname, but I got it because I don’t like chili.”

You tilt your head to the side, the picture of innocence. “Oh? I had no idea. How terribly unfortunate.”

Carlos isn’t sure, but he thinks he detects a note of satisfaction in your voice. He wipes at his streaming eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“What ... what kind of pepper did you use?” He asks, his voice hoarse.

You tap a finger against your chin, as if deep in thought. “Oh, you know, just a little of this, a little of that. I believe there might have been some Carolina Reaper in there. And maybe a touch of Ghost Pepper. Or was it Trinidad Scorpion? It’s so hard to keep track.”

Carlos’ jaw drops. “You ... you put the world’s hottest peppers in a cake?”

You shrug, your eyes dancing with barely concealed glee. “I wanted it to have a real kick. After all, you’re going to need all the fire you can get to keep up with our team, aren’t you?”

There’s something in your tone that makes Carlos wonder if there’s more to this than a simple baking mishap. But surely, he reasons, no one would go to such lengths just to make him uncomfortable on his first day. Would they?

“I ... appreciate the thought,” Carlos says, trying to be diplomatic despite the fact that his entire mouth feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. “But perhaps next time, a simple vanilla cake would suffice?”

You laugh, the sound like tinkling bells. “Oh, Carlos. Where’s the fun in that?”

Carlos finds himself chuckling despite the lingering burn. There’s something about you that he finds utterly captivating, even if you did just try to melt his taste buds.

“You know,” you say, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’ve heard that milk can help with the heat. Would you like some?”

Carlos nods eagerly. “Sí, por favor. That would be wonderful.”

You disappear for a moment, returning with a tall glass of milk. Carlos takes it gratefully, downing half of it in one go. It’s only after he’s swallowed that he realizes something is ... off.

The milk tastes sour, curdled. Carlos gags, barely managing to keep from spitting it out in front of everyone.

“Oh dear,” you say, your eyes wide with feigned concern. “Is the milk not to your liking either? How terribly clumsy of me. I must have grabbed the wrong carton.”

Carlos looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s sure that none of this is an accident. But why? What has he done to deserve such treatment?

Before he can voice any of these thoughts, you’re already backing away, that mischievous smile still playing on your lips.

“Well, I should really get going,” you announce. “Lots to do, you know how it is. Welcome to the team, Carlos. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

With that, you turn on your heel, giving your hair a little flip as you saunter towards the door. Just before you exit, you glance back over your shoulder, meeting Carlos’ bewildered gaze.

“Oh, and Carlos?” You say sweetly. “Do try to stay cool out there on the track, won’t you?”

And with a final giggle, you’re gone, leaving Carlos standing there with a burning mouth, sour milk, and more questions than answers.

As the other team members rush to get him water and apologize for the “mix-up,” Carlos finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Despite everything, he can’t deny the spark of intrigue you’ve ignited in him. You’re a puzzle, one he’s suddenly very eager to solve.

“Are you alright, mate?” One of the mechanics asks, looking concerned.

Carlos nods, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the lingering burn. “Sí, I’m fine. Just ... adjusting to the Williams welcome, I suppose.”

As he’s led away to continue his tour, Carlos can’t shake the feeling that his time at Williams is going to be far more interesting than he’d anticipated. And somehow, he’s looking forward to every moment of it.

Because if there’s one thing Carlos loves, it’s a challenge. And you, with your sweet smile and fiery surprises, might just be the biggest challenge he’s ever faced.

Game on, he thinks to himself. Game on.

***

The bell above the door chimes as you step into the local Boots pharmacy, a mischievous glint in your eye. You scan the aisles, searching for your target: the hair care section. As you approach, a friendly-looking employee notices your slightly lost expression and approaches.

“Can I help you find anything?” She asks with a smile.

You put on your most innocent face. “Oh, yes, please. I’m looking for some hair products, but I’m not sure where to start. What would you say are the absolute worst ones you carry?”

The employee’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, did you say worst?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes, exactly. The ones you’d never recommend to anyone. The cheapest, most damaging products you have.”

“Well,” the employee says hesitantly, “we don’t really carry anything I’d consider ‘damaging,’ but there are certainly some budget options that aren’t as high-quality as others.”

“Perfect!” You exclaim. “Those are exactly what I’m looking for. Could you show me?”

Still looking confused, the employee leads you down the aisle. “May I ask why you’re interested in these particular products?”

You think quickly. “Oh, it’s for a ... science experiment. I’m testing the effects of different hair products on ... um ... synthetic hair fibers.”

The employee doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she shrugs and starts pointing out various items. “Well, if you’re looking for the least effective products, I’d say stay away from these. This shampoo tends to leave a residue, this conditioner is known for making hair feel greasy, and this styling gel can make hair crunchy and flaky.”

You nod along, grabbing each item as she mentions it. “Excellent, excellent. Any others?”

By the time you’re done, your basket is overflowing with an assortment of the cheapest, least recommended hair products in the store. The employee eyes your haul with concern.

“Are you sure you want all of these?” She asks.

You flash her a bright smile. “Absolutely! The more data points for my experiment, the better. Thank you so much for your help!”

As you make your way to the checkout, you can’t help but giggle to yourself. Phase two of Operation Humble Carlos is officially underway.

Later that evening, you find yourself outside a sleek apartment building in the heart of Grove. Your heart races with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as you fish a key out of your pocket — a key you had “borrowed” from your father’s desk drawer earlier that day.

“Sorry, Dad,” you mutter under your breath as you slip into the building. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You make your way up to the fifth floor, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Pausing outside apartment 5C, you take a deep breath and slide the key into the lock. It turns smoothly, and you’re in.

Carlos’ temporary apartment is immaculate, with minimalist furniture and a few personal touches here and there. You spot a framed photo of him with his family on a side table and feel a twinge of guilt. But then you remember Logan’s devastated face when he learned he was being replaced, and your resolve hardens.

“Right,” you say to yourself, setting down your bag of drugstore products. “Let’s get to work.”

You head straight for the bathroom, knowing you don’t have much time before Carlos returns from his evening training session. The bathroom is just as pristine as the rest of the apartment, with a array of expensive-looking products lined up neatly on the counter.

You pick up one of the bottles, whistling low under your breath as you read the label. “Oribe? Fancy.” You turn the bottle over, eyes widening at the price tag still stuck to the bottom. “Holy... that’s more than my entire hair care budget for a year!”

Shaking your head, you get to work. One by one, you empty out Carlos’ high-end products, replacing them with the cheap alternatives you bought. You’re careful to match shampoo for shampoo, conditioner for conditioner, making sure the consistencies are as close as possible.

As you work, you can’t help but imagine Carlos’ reaction tomorrow morning. Will his precious locks turn into a frizzy mess? Will his signature style fall flat? The thought makes you giggle.

“This is for Logan,” you remind yourself as you squeeze the last of a particularly goopy gel into its fancy counterpart’s bottle.

Just as you’re putting the finishing touches on your handiwork, you hear a key in the lock. Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Mierda,” you hear Carlos mutter from the other side of the door. “Where did I put that ...”

You freeze, panic setting in. You hadn’t planned on him coming back so soon. Thinking quickly, you gather up all the evidence of your presence – empty drugstore bottles, discarded packaging – and shove it into your bag.

The front door opens just as you’re zipping up your bag. You can hear Carlos humming to himself as he moves around the apartment. Holding your breath, you ease the bathroom door open a crack, peering out into the hallway.

Carlos is in the kitchen, his back to you as he rummages through the fridge. This is your chance. You slip out of the bathroom, tiptoeing towards the front door with the stealth of a cat burglar.

Just as your hand touches the doorknob, Carlos speaks. “Hello? Is someone there?”

You freeze, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he must be able to hear it. You hear his footsteps approaching and, in a moment of panic, you duck behind the coat rack by the door.

Carlos appears in the hallway, looking confused. “Huh, could have sworn I heard something.”

He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — a spicy, woodsy scent that makes your head spin a little. You hold your breath, praying he doesn’t look too closely at the coat rack.

After what feels like an eternity, Carlos shrugs and turns back towards the kitchen. “Must be imagining things. Maybe I need an early night.”

As soon as he’s out of sight, you make your move. In one fluid motion, you slip out from behind the coat rack and out the front door, closing it as quietly as possible behind you.

You don’t stop running until you’re out of the building and halfway down the block. Only then do you allow yourself to breathe, leaning against a lamppost as you try to calm your racing heart.

“That,” you gasp between breaths, “was way too close.”

But as the adrenaline starts to fade, a giddy excitement takes its place. You did it. Operation Humble Carlos, phase two, is complete. Now all that’s left is to wait and see the results.

As you make your way home, you can’t help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. Will Carlos notice the difference in his hair? Will the promotional photos be a disaster? The possibilities are endless, and you find yourself grinning at the thought.

“Sweet dreams, Carlos,” you murmur as you unlock your own front door. “Tomorrow’s going to be a bad hair day.”

***

Carlos arrives at the Williams factory, his stomach in knots. He’s been dreading this moment since he woke up this morning to find his usually luscious locks in a state of utter disarray. No amount of styling or product seemed to help — if anything, each attempt only made things worse.

As he walks into the building, cap pulled low over his eyes, he can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. His hair has never betrayed him like this before, not even on the most humid race days.

“Carlos! There you are,” James greets him with a warm smile. “We were starting to worry you’d gotten lost.”

Carlos forces a laugh, trying to appear at ease. “Lo siento, just a bit of traffic. You know how it is.”

James nods sympathetically. “Of course, of course. Well, the photography team is all set up in the main conference room. Shall we?”

As they walk, Carlos can’t help but scan the hallways, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Despite the cake incident and his current hair crisis, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you. There’s something about your mischievous smile that both intrigues and unnerves him.

The conference room is a hive of activity when they enter. Lights are being adjusted, backdrops shifted, and various team personnel mill about in their crisp uniforms. In the center of it all stands the photographer, a petite woman with a no-nonsense air about her.

“Ah, there’s our star!” She exclaims upon seeing Carlos. “I’m Lisa, I’ll be shooting you today. Let’s get you to hair and makeup, shall we?”

Carlos feels a wave of panic. “Ah, actually, I was thinking ... perhaps we could do some shots with the cap? You know, for a more casual look?”

Lisa frowns. “That wasn’t in the brief. We need clean, professional shots for the team profiles.”

“I know, I know,” Carlos says quickly. “But maybe just a few? For social media or something?”

Before Lisa can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the room. “Oh, come now, Carlos. You can’t hide that famous hair of yours.”

Carlos turns to see you sauntering towards him, a playful smirk on your lips. His heart does a little flip, even as alarm bells ring in his head.

“Y/N,” he greets you, trying to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You shrug, your eyes twinkling with barely contained mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m quite interested in seeing how you ... present yourself to the team.”

There’s something in your tone that makes Carlos wonder, not for the first time, if you might have something to do with his current predicament. But surely not. How could you possibly have tampered with his hair products?

“Well,” Lisa interjects, clearly growing impatient, “cap or no cap, we need to get started. Carlos, if you could please take a seat in the makeup chair?”

Carlos hesitates, his hand unconsciously moving to adjust his cap. “I ... I’m not sure that’s necessary. I did my own styling this morning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you now? Well, don’t keep us in suspense, Smooth Operator. Let’s see this expert styling of yours.”

The room has gone quiet, all eyes on Carlos. He can feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he weighs his options. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he slowly removes his cap.

There’s a collective gasp from the room. Carlos squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see the looks of horror he’s sure are on everyone’s faces.

“Oh my,” he hears Lisa mutter.

“Carlos,” James says gently, “is everything alright?”

Carlos opens his eyes, forcing himself to face the room. “I ... I don’t know what happened. I used my usual products this morning, but ...”

His voice trails off as he catches sight of his reflection in a nearby mirror. His normally sleek, perfectly coiffed hair is a disaster. It’s frizzy and dull, sticking out at odd angles and looking more like a bird’s nest than anything resembling a hairstyle.

“Well,” you say, barely containing your laughter, “I suppose this gives new meaning to bed head, doesn’t it?”

Carlos turns to you, a mix of embarrassment and suspicion coloring his cheeks. “This isn’t funny, Y/N. I look ridiculous.”

You put on an exaggerated pout. “Aw, come now, Carlos. I think it’s rather ... charming. Very avant-garde. You could start a new trend.”

Despite his predicament, Carlos finds himself fighting back a smile. There’s something about your teasing that he can’t help but find endearing, even if he’s fairly certain you’re somehow behind this catastrophe.

“Right,” Lisa says, clapping her hands together. “Well, we can work with this. Margie, bring out the heavy-duty products. We’ve got some ... taming to do.”

As the makeup artist approaches with an array of styling tools, Carlos braces himself for what’s sure to be an uncomfortable experience. To his surprise, you pull up a chair next to him.

“Mind if I stay and watch the transformation?” You ask innocently. “I’m always fascinated by the magic of Hollywood-style makeovers.”

Carlos narrows his eyes at you. “Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this a little too much?”

You gasp dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “Me? Enjoy your discomfort? I would never.”

Despite everything, Carlos finds himself chuckling. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink.

As Margie gets to work on Carlos’ hair, applying what seems like gallons of product and wielding a comb like a weapon, you keep up a steady stream of chatter. You ask about his move to England, his first impressions of the team, his hopes for the upcoming season. Despite his initial wariness, Carlos finds himself relaxing, drawn into easy conversation with you.

“You know,” he says during a brief lull while Margie fetches more hairspray, “for someone who seems intent on making my life difficult, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”

You tilt your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Who says I’m trying to make your life difficult?”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “The cake? This hair situation? I may be new here, but I’m not stupid.”

You lean in close, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe I just like seeing you a little ... ruffled.”

Carlos’ breath catches in his throat at your proximity. He’s suddenly very aware of the subtle floral scent of your perfume, the way your eyes seem to sparkle with hidden laughter.

“There!” Margie announces triumphantly, breaking the moment. “I think we’ve salvaged it.”

Carlos turns to the mirror, bracing himself. To his immense relief, his hair looks ... well, not perfect, but certainly presentable. It’s styled in a slightly messier way than he usually wears it, but it works.

“What do you think?” He asks, turning to you.

You study him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, you reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Not bad,” you say softly. “But I think I preferred the bird’s nest.”

With that, you stand up and saunter away, leaving Carlos staring after you with a mixture of confusion and intrigue.

“Alright,” Lisa calls. “Let’s get you in front of the camera.”

As Carlos takes his place in front of the backdrop, his mind is racing. He’s still not sure what game you’re playing, but he’s becoming increasingly certain that he wants to be a part of it. There’s something about you that draws him in, despite (or perhaps because of) your apparent determination to keep him on his toes.

“Smile!” Lisa instructs, and Carlos obliges, flashing his most charming grin at the camera.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you watching from the sidelines, that ever-present mischievous smirk on your face. As the camera flashes, Carlos makes a silent vow to himself. He’s going to figure you out, Y/N Vowles, no matter what it takes.

***

The Australian sun beats down mercilessly on the Albert Park Circuit as Carlos leans against the wall of the Williams garage, his eyes fixed on the screens displaying telemetry data from Alex’s current lap. It’s the first day of preseason testing, and while Carlos is eager to get behind the wheel himself, he knows his turn won’t come until the afternoon session.

A familiar voice cuts through his thoughts. “Well, well, if it isn’t our resident Spaniard. Enjoying the view?”

Carlos turns to see you approaching, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite his best efforts to remain wary after the hair incident, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Y/N,” he greets you, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You shrug, coming to stand beside him. “Oh, you know me. I like to keep an eye on things. Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? And here I thought you might be here to cause more mischief.”

You gasp in mock offense. “Mischief? Me? I’m wounded, Carlos. Truly wounded.”

He can’t help but chuckle. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe after the cake incident. And the hair fiasco.”

“Pure coincidence,” you say airily, waving a hand. “I can’t be held responsible for your sensitive taste buds or your apparent allergic reaction to ... whatever hair products you used that day.”

Carlos narrows his eyes, studying your face for any sign of guilt. But your expression remains innocently neutral, save for that ever-present glint of mischief in your eyes.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Coincidence. Of course.”

You lean in closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “You know, Carlos, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were becoming a bit paranoid. Seeing sabotage around every corner. That can’t be healthy.”

Carlos feels his pulse quicken at your proximity. Despite his suspicions, he can’t deny the effect you have on him. “Perhaps I have good reason to be cautious, no?”

You pull back, laughing. “Oh, lighten up, Chili. I’m just trying to keep things interesting around here. You wouldn’t want to be bored during your first season with us, would you?”

Before Carlos can respond, a cheer goes up from the garage as Alex completes another fast lap. You both turn to watch the screens, momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity.

“He’s doing well,” Carlos comments, genuinely impressed by the times he’s seeing.

You nod, a hint of pride in your voice. “Alex is a fantastic driver. You’ve got some big shoes to fill, you know.”

There’s an edge to your words that makes Carlos wonder, not for the first time, about your relationship with the team’s previous driver. He’s heard rumors about your close friendship with Logan Sargeant, the man he replaced.

“I intend to do my best,” Carlos says carefully. “For the team, and for myself.”

You turn to face him, your expression unreadable. “I’m sure you will. Just remember, Carlos, this isn’t just any team. It’s a family. And family ... well, family looks out for each other.”

There’s a weight to your words that Carlos can’t quite decipher. Are you warning him? Threatening him? Or simply stating a fact?

Before he can ponder it further, you abruptly change the subject. “Oh, did you happen to see that article I was reading earlier? Fascinating stuff.”

Carlos blinks at the sudden shift. “Article? What article?”

You pull out your phone, scrolling through it with a look of concentration. “It was about recent medical findings. Quite eye-opening, really. Did you know that having your appendix removed has been shown to shorten your life expectancy?”

Carlos feels a chill run down his spine. “What? That ... that can’t be right.”

You nod solemnly. “Oh yes, it’s all here in black and white. Apparently, the appendix plays a more crucial role in our overall health than previously thought. Something about gut bacteria and immune system function. People who’ve had appendectomies are at higher risk for all sorts of health issues later in life.”

Carlos’ mind is racing. He had his appendix removed just last year after a sudden, severe case of appendicitis. At the time, he’d been told it was a routine procedure with no long-term consequences.

“Can I ... can I see that article?” He asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

You look up from your phone, a look of concern crossing your face. “Oh, Carlos, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about your surgery last year. How insensitive of me to bring this up.”

Carlos shakes his head, reaching for the phone. “No, it’s fine. I just want to read it for myself.”

But you’ve already tucked the phone away. “You know what? Let’s not dwell on it. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. These studies are always changing, right? One day something’s bad for you, the next it’s a superfood.”

Carlos frowns, a nagging suspicion growing in the back of his mind. “Y/N, why did you really bring this up?”

You blink innocently. “Bring what up? Oh, the article? Like I said, I just found it interesting. No ulterior motive, I assure you.”

But there’s a glint in your eye that tells Carlos otherwise. He takes a step closer, his voice low. “Is this another one of your games? Are you trying to get in my head before the testing session?”

You hold his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. “Now why would I do something like that? I’m just making conversation. Keeping you company during what must be a very boring morning for you.”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, frustration and confusion warring within him. “I don’t understand you. One moment you’re friendly, the next you’re ... what? Trying to sabotage me? Scare me? What’s your endgame here?”

Your expression softens slightly. “Oh, Carlos. Not everything has to have an endgame. Sometimes life is just ... interesting. Don’t you think?”

Before he can respond, a commotion from the pit lane draws both of your attention. Alex’s car is being wheeled back into the garage, signaling the end of his morning session.

“Well,” you say brightly, “looks like it’s almost your turn. Better get ready, Chili. Wouldn’t want any ... distractions affecting your performance, would we?”

With that, you turn on your heel and saunter away, leaving Carlos staring after you with a mixture of frustration and intrigue.

As he watches you disappear into the crowd of team personnel, Carlos can’t shake the feeling that he’s just been played. Again. But instead of anger, he feels a strange sense of ... excitement? Challenge?

“Two can play at this game, Y/N,” he mutters to himself as he heads towards the locker room to change into his racing suit. “Two can play at this game.”

As he prepares for his testing session, Carlos finds his mind drifting back to your conversation. He knows he should be focused on the task at hand, on the data he needs to gather for the team. But he can’t help but wonder what your next move will be. And, more importantly, how he’ll respond.

For the first time since joining Williams, Carlos feels truly alive. The racing, the competition, it all pales in comparison to the intricate dance he seems to be engaged in with you. It’s dangerous, he knows. You’re a distraction he can’t afford. And yet ...

As he climbs into the cockpit of his car, helmet in hand, Carlos makes a decision. He’s going to solve the puzzle that is Y/N Vowles. He’s going to figure out your game, your motivations, your secrets. And when he does ...

Well, that’s when the real fun will begin.

With a grin hidden behind his visor, Carlos starts the engine. The roar drowns out all other thoughts, leaving only the track ahead and the challenge that awaits. Both on the circuit and off.

***

Carlos strolls down the plush carpeted hallway of the hotel, his mind still buzzing from the day’s testing session. The scent of leather and polished wood fills the air, a stark contrast to the oil and rubber smells he’s grown accustomed to at the track. As he approaches his room, a familiar voice catches his attention.

He pauses, realizing the sound is coming from your room, just a few doors down from his own. Carlos hesitates, knowing he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but curiosity gets the better of him. He takes a few quiet steps closer, straining to make out the words.

“... miss you too, Logie,” he hears you say, your voice muffled but unmistakable. “It’s not the same around here without you.”

Carlos’ eyebrows shoot up. Logie? As in Logan Sargeant? Intrigued, he moves closer, pressing his ear gently against the door.

A male voice responds, tinny and distant — likely on speakerphone. “I know, Y/N. But hey, at least you’re keeping busy, right? How’s Operation Torment Carlos going?”

Carlos feels his pulse quicken. So he was right — you have been deliberately messing with him.

He hears you laugh, a sound that sends an involuntary shiver down his spine despite the circumstances. “Oh, it’s going splendidly. You should have seen his face when he took off that cap at the photoshoot. Priceless!”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice carries a note of concern. “Don’t you think maybe you’re taking this a bit too far? I mean, it’s not really Carlos’ fault that Williams decided to-”

“Shh,” you interrupt. “We don’t say that name around here, remember? And besides, I made a promise. A pinky promise, Logan. Those are sacred.”

Carlos leans in closer, his ear practically glued to the door now. A promise? What kind of promise?

Logan sighs audibly. “I know, I know. But seriously, Y/N, you need to be careful. If your dad finds out-”

“He won’t,” you say confidently. “Trust me, I’ve got this under control. Carlos doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Carlos has to stifle a snort at that. If only you knew.

“Speaking of control,” Logan’s voice turns playful, “when are you going to get that under control and come visit me? It’s not the same without my number one fan cheering me on.”

There’s a pause, and Carlos can almost picture the soft smile he imagines is on your face. “Soon, I promise. Things are just ... complicated right now. With Dad, and the team, and ... everything.”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice softens. “You know you don’t have to stay there for me, right? I’m okay. Really.”

“I know,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to. For you, for the team ... for myself.”

Carlos feels a pang in his chest at the emotion in your voice. He’s starting to realize there’s a lot more going on here than he initially thought.

“Well,” Logan says after a moment, “whenever you’re ready, there’s always a place for you here. The house is all set up, and I know a great little taco place that-”

“Logan Sargeant,” you interrupt with a laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me with tacos?”

“Is it working?”

“... maybe a little.”

Carlos finds himself smiling despite the situation. The easy banter between you and Logan reminds him of conversations with his own close friends.

“Seriously though,” Logan continues, “how are you holding up? Really?”

There’s a long pause before you answer. “I’m ... okay. It’s strange, you know? Everything’s the same, but different. The garage doesn’t feel right without you there.”

“Y/N ...”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just ... I miss my best friend.”

The raw honesty in your voice makes Carlos feel like he’s intruding on something deeply personal. He knows he should walk away, but he can’t seem to make his feet move.

Logan clears his throat. “I miss you too. More than you know. But hey, we’re making it work, right? Long-distance at its finest.”

You laugh, but it sounds a bit watery to Carlos’ ears. “Right. Absolutely killing it.”

“Speaking of killing it,” Logan says, his tone turning serious. “Y/N, about this whole revenge thing ...”

“Logan, don’t start-”

“No, listen to me. I get it, okay? I do. You’re angry and hurt, and you want someone to blame. But Carlos ... he’s just doing his job. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

Carlos finds himself holding his breath, waiting for your response.

“I know that,” you say softly. “Logically, I know that. But when I see him in the garage, in your driver’s room, talking to your engineers ... it just hurts. And I don’t know how else to deal with it.”

“By talking to me,” Logan says gently. “By letting yourself feel it instead of bottling it up and taking it out on some poor, unsuspecting Spaniard.”

You snort. “Poor? Have you seen him? Nothing poor about that man.”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice carries a warning tone, but there’s amusement there too. “Focus.”

“Right, right. No objectifying the enemy. Got it.”

Carlos feels his cheeks heat up at your words. He shakes his head, trying to refocus on the conversation.

“Look,” Logan continues, “all I’m saying is ... maybe give the guy a chance? Who knows, you might even like him if you stop trying to make his life miserable.”

There’s a long pause, and Carlos finds himself leaning even closer to the door, desperate to hear your response.

“I ... I’ll think about it,” you finally say. “But no promises. Well, except the pinky one. That still stands.”

Logan groans. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” you reply cheekily.

As the conversation drifts to lighter topics, Carlos slowly backs away from the door, his mind reeling from everything he’s heard. He makes his way back to his own room in a daze, collapsing onto the bed as soon as he’s inside.

Carlos stares up at the ceiling, trying to process it all. You’re not just messing with him for fun — this is about loyalty, about friendship, about dealing with a loss. He thinks back to all your interactions, seeing them in a new light now.

Part of him wants to be angry. After all, you’ve been deliberately sabotaging him, making his transition to the team more difficult than it needed to be. But another part ... another part understands. He thinks about how he felt when he was in Logan’s position, when he had been dropped from his dream team and replaced. Wouldn’t he have wanted a friend like you in his corner?

Carlos sits up, running a hand through his hair as he comes to a decision. He can’t pretend he didn’t hear what he heard. But he also can’t confront you directly — that would only make things worse. No, he needs to be smarter about this.

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms. If you want to play games, he’ll play. But he’ll play by his own rules.

As he starts to plan, Carlos can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement in his stomach. This season is shaping up to be far more interesting than he ever could have imagined. And if he’s being honest with himself, he’s looking forward to every moment of it.

***

Carlos strides into the Williams motorhome, a determined gleam in his eye. It’s been two weeks since he overheard your conversation with Logan, and he’s been on a mission ever since. Operation Charm Y/N is in full swing, and Carlos is pulling out all the stops.

As he enters the main area, he spots you chatting with one of the engineers. Your eyes flick towards him, and he flashes his most dazzling smile.

“Buenos días, Y/N!” He calls out cheerfully. “You’re looking radiant as always. Is that a new hairstyle?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard by his enthusiasm. “Uh, no? It’s the same as always.”

He chuckles, stepping closer. “Well, it must be the lighting then. It makes your eyes sparkle beautifully.”

A faint blush creeps across your cheeks, and Carlos feels a surge of triumph. Progress.

“Right,” you say slowly. “Thanks, I guess. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your interviews?”

Carlos waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, there’s always time for a chat with my favorite team member. How are you finding the track so far? I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Since when do you care about my thoughts on the track?”

“Since always!” Carlos exclaims, feigning hurt. “Your insights are invaluable, Y/N. I hang on your every word.”

You snort, but Carlos doesn’t miss the way the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. “Now I know you’re full of it, Sainz. What’s your game here?”

Carlos puts on his most innocent expression. “Game? There’s no game. Can’t a guy just appreciate his talented and beautiful colleague?”

Your eyes widen slightly at the compliment, and for a moment, Carlos thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you shake your head, a reluctant smile forming.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in your words.

As you turn to walk away, Carlos notices your gaze lingering on the water bottle in his hand. It’s just for a split second, but it’s enough to raise his suspicions. He glances down at the bottle, wondering if you’ve tampered with it somehow.

Determined not to let on that he’s onto you, Carlos keeps up his charm offensive throughout the day. During interviews, he makes sure to mention how wonderful the entire Williams team is, singling you out for special praise whenever he can.

“Oh yes, Y/N Vowles is an absolute gem,” he tells one reporter with a wink. “The heart and soul of Williams, if you ask me. We’re lucky to have her.”

From across the room, he sees you stiffen at his words, a mix of confusion and guilt flashing across your face.

As the day wears on, Carlos notices you becoming increasingly agitated. Your eyes keep darting to his water bottle, and you seem to flinch every time he reaches for it. He makes a show of almost drinking from it several times, watching your reaction carefully.

Finally, during a brief break between interviews, Carlos decides to force the issue. He picks up the bottle, slowly bringing the straw to his lips while maintaining eye contact with you.

Your eyes widen in panic. “Carlos, wait!”

Before he can react, you’re across the room, knocking the bottle out of his hands. It clatters to the floor, spilling water everywhere.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” you stammer, your face flushed with embarrassment. “I just ... I saw a bee! It was about to land on your bottle. Wouldn’t want you to get stung, you know? Allergies and all that.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “A bee? Inside the motorhome?”

“Yes!” You exclaim, a bit too enthusiastically. “Must have snuck in somehow. Crafty little things, bees. Anyway, I should go ... get a mop. For the water. Sorry again!”

With that, you turn and practically run from the room, leaving Carlos staring after you in bemusement.

“Well,” he murmurs to himself, “that was certainly interesting.”

As the day winds down, Carlos finds himself lost in thought. Your reaction to the water bottle incident was telling, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He had hoped his charm offensive might have started to break through your defenses.

Sighing, he gathers his things and heads for the exit. As he approaches the door, he hears a rustling sound coming from around the corner. Curiosity piqued, he peeks around the edge of the motorhome.

There you are, glancing furtively around as you try to shove something into a nearby trash can. Carlos squints, just barely making out the label on the package you’re attempting to dispose of.

Laxatives.

He has to stifle a laugh. So that was your plan. It’s juvenile, sure, but he has to admire your commitment to the bit.

Deciding to seize the moment, Carlos steps out from his hiding spot. “Fancy meeting you here. Doing a bit of spring cleaning?”

You jump, nearly dropping the package. “Carlos! I ... this isn’t what it looks like.”

He steps closer, his voice gentle. “No? Because it looks like you’re trying to get rid of evidence.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. “I ... I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was stupid and childish and-”

“And exactly the kind of thing I would have done in your position,” Carlos interrupts, surprising both you and himself with his honesty.

You look up at him, confusion written across your face. “What?”

Carlos sighs, leaning against the wall of the motorhome. “Look, Y/N. I know about the promise you made to Logan. I ... may have overheard a conversation you had with him a couple of weeks ago.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “You ... you were eavesdropping?”

“Not intentionally,” he says quickly. “But yes, I heard enough to understand why you’ve been ... let’s say, less than welcoming.”

You cross your arms, a defensive posture. “So what, you’ve been playing nice to try and manipulate me? To get me to stop?”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, not manipulate. I just ... I wanted to show you that I’m not the enemy here. That maybe we could be friends, or at least friendly colleagues.”

There’s a long pause as you process his words. Finally, you speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do that, Carlos. Logan, he’s ... he’s my best friend. And seeing you here, in his place ...”

“I understand,” Carlos says softly. “Really, I do. But Y/N, don’t you think Logan would want you to be happy? To enjoy your work, to make new friends?”

You bite your lip, considering. “Maybe. But the promise ...”

Carlos can’t help but chuckle. “Ah yes, the sacred pinky promise. Well, how about this — instead of making my life a living hell, why don’t you promise to make it ... interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

“Challenge me,” Carlos suggests, warming to the idea. “Push me to be better, on and off the track. Keep me on my toes. But maybe without the laxatives, sí?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “I suppose that could work. But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you, Sainz.”

Carlos grins, holding out his hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Vowles. Do we have a deal?”

You eye his hand warily for a moment before reaching out to shake it. “Deal. But I’m warning you, I can be a real pain in the ass when I want to be.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Carlos laughs. “Now, what do you say we get rid of this evidence properly and grab a coffee? I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.”

As you both head towards the nearest café, Carlos can’t help but feel a sense of excitement. He may have won this battle, but he has a feeling the war is far from over. And honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Carlos pushes open the door of the quaint coffee shop, holding it for you as you follow him inside. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans fills the air, and the soft chatter of other patrons creates a cozy atmosphere.

As you both approach the counter, Carlos gestures towards the menu board. “Order whatever you like. It’s on me.”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your usual mischief returning to your eyes. “Oh? And what makes you think I can’t pay for my own coffee?”

Carlos grins, enjoying this glimpse of your feisty side. “Consider it a peace offering. Or reparations for all the grey hairs you’ve given me these past few months.”

You snort, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Fine. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Carlos chuckles.

After placing your orders — a latte for you and an americano for Carlos — you both find a secluded table near the back of the shop. As you settle into your seats, an awkward silence falls between you.

Carlos takes a sip of his coffee, studying you over the rim of his cup. Now that he’s finally got you alone, without the pretenses and the pranks, he’s not quite sure where to start.

You break the silence first, your voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “So ... you said you overheard my conversation with Logan?”

Carlos nods, setting his cup down. “Sí. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but ... well, I heard enough to understand why you’ve been, shall we say, less than welcoming.”

You wince slightly. “Yeah, about that ... I may have gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” Carlos raises an eyebrow, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Y/N, you tried to give me laxatives.”

You have the grace to look embarrassed, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. “Okay, more than a bit. I’m sorry, Carlos. Really.”

He waves off your apology. “Water under the bridge. Or should I say, laxatives down the drain?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Carlos grins. Then, his expression softens. “But in all seriousness, Y/N ... I get it. I do. Logan is your friend, and seeing me here instead of him ... it can’t be easy.”

You look up, meeting his gaze. There’s a vulnerability in your eyes that Carlos hasn’t seen before. “It’s not just that. I mean, yes, I miss Logan terribly. But it’s also ... this team, it’s like family to me. And seeing someone new come in, someone who didn’t grow up with all of us ... I guess I felt threatened.”

Carlos leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, wrapping your hands around your coffee cup as if seeking comfort from its warmth.

“Why the elaborate schemes?” Carlos asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, they were ... creative. But why not just tell me how you felt?”

You let out a long sigh, your fingers tracing patterns on the side of your cup. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure. I guess ... growing up in this world, you learn to play games. To never show your true feelings because they might be used against you.”

Carlos tilts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean, growing up in this world?”

A wry smile crosses your face. “Carlos, my dad is James Vowles. I practically grew up in the Mercedes garage during the Brocedes era. You think I didn’t pick up a few things watching Lewis and Nico go at it?”

Carlos’ eyes widen in realization. “The mind games.”

You nod. “Exactly. I saw firsthand how effective they could be. How a well-placed comment or a seemingly innocent action could throw someone completely off their game. I guess ... I guess part of me thought that if I could do the same to you, maybe ...”

“Maybe I’d leave?” Carlos finishes softly.

You look down, guilt written across your face. “Maybe. Or at least ... I don’t know. Maybe I thought if I could prove you weren’t up to the challenge, Dad would reconsider his decision.”

Carlos reaches across the table, gently placing his hand over yours. “Y/N, look at me.”

Reluctantly, you raise your eyes to meet his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Not unless the team decides I’m not good enough. And if that happens, it’ll be because of my performance on the track, not because of any mind games.”

You nod slowly, a small smile forming. “I know that now. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad. You’re ... you’re good for the team. I can see that now.”

Carlos feels a warmth spread through his chest at your words. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”

You pull your hand away, but the smile remains. “Don’t let it go to your head, Sainz. I still think Logan’s better.”

“You know,” Carlos draws out, “I’m glad we did this. Cleared the air.”

You nod, your expression turning serious. “Me too. And Carlos ... I really am sorry for all the trouble I caused. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Carlos shrugs. “Like I said, water under the bridge. Or should I say, hair products in the bin?”

Your jaw drops. “How did you know about that?”

He winks. “I didn’t. But thanks for confirming my suspicions.”

You groan, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“Oh, hermosa,” Carlos grins, “you have no idea.”

***

Carlos stands in front of your hotel room door, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. In one hand, he clutches a bouquet of flowers so large it partially obscures his vision. In the other, he holds the key card you had given him just a few days ago, a symbol of the trust that has grown between you.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he’s about to do. Over the past few months, your relationship has evolved from antagonistic to friendly to ... something more. Carlos can no longer deny the feelings that have been growing inside him. Tonight, he’s finally gathered the courage to ask you out on a proper date.

With one final steadying breath, he raises his hand and knocks on the door. “Y/N? Are you there?”

Silence greets him. He waits a moment, then knocks again, louder this time. “Y/N? It’s Carlos. I was hoping we could talk.”

Still no answer. Carlos frowns, a tendril of worry creeping into his mind. It’s not like you to ignore him, especially not after the closeness you’ve developed.

“Maybe she’s in the shower,” he mutters to himself, trying to quell his rising anxiety.

He debates waiting, but something urges him to check on you. After all, you did give him the key card for emergencies. This isn’t exactly an emergency, but ...

Before he can talk himself out of it, Carlos swipes the card and pushes the door open. “Y/N? I’m sorry for barging in, but I was worried when you didn’t ...”

His voice trails off as he takes in the scene before him. The flowers fall from his suddenly numb fingers, scattering across the floor.

There you are, on the bed, but you’re not alone. Carlos’ predecessor at Williams is there with you. The two of you are tangled together in a way that leaves little doubt about the nature of your relationship.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Carlos blinks rapidly, his brain struggling to process what he’s seeing. You and Logan stare back at him, equally frozen in shock.

Logan recovers first, quickly pulling away from you and tugging a sheet over himself. “Carlos! What the hell, man?”

You sit up, clutching a pillow to your chest, your face a mix of embarrassment and guilt. “Carlos, I ... we can explain.”

Carlos opens his mouth, then closes it again. A thousand thoughts race through his mind, but the one that finally makes it to his lips surprises even him.

“Can I join?”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implications. Carlos immediately wants to take them back, to pretend he never said them. But a small part of him, the part that’s been drawn to both you and Logan in ways he’s never fully understood, holds its breath in anticipation.

Your eyes widen in shock. “What?”

Logan looks between you and Carlos, his expression unreadable. “Dude, are you serious?”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks burning. “I ... I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, I came here to ask Y/N out, but seeing you both ... I can’t deny there’s something there.”

You exchange a look with Logan, having one of those silent conversations that only people who know each other intimately can have. After a moment, you turn back to Carlos.

“Carlos,” you say gently, “I think we all need to take a step back and talk about this. Properly. When we’re all ... dressed.”

Carlos nods, feeling slightly dazed. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’ll just ... I’ll wait outside.”

He turns to leave, but Logan’s voice stops him. “Wait. Carlos, man ... I’m sorry. We should have told you.”

Carlos looks back, meeting Logan’s gaze. There’s genuine regret in the American’s eyes, and Carlos feels some of his hurt and confusion start to dissipate.

“It’s okay,” he says, surprised to find he means it. “We all have our secrets, no?”

You slide off the bed, wrapping yourself in the hotel robe. “Carlos, please don’t go. Stay. We should talk about this.”

Carlos hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. Part of him wants to run, to pretend this never happened. But a larger part, the part that’s grown to care deeply for both you and Logan, makes him turn back.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Let’s talk.”

You gesture to the small sitting area in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you sit down? Logan and I will get dressed, and then we can figure this out together.”

Carlos nods, moving to the armchair as you and Logan disappear into the bathroom. He sits there, staring at the scattered flowers on the floor, trying to make sense of his swirling emotions.

A few minutes later, you both emerge, fully dressed but with an air of awkwardness that wasn’t there before. Logan takes a seat on the small sofa, while you perch on the arm, creating a triangle between the three of you.

“So,” you begin, your voice tentative. “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”

Carlos nods, his eyes moving between you and Logan. “How long has this been going on?”

Logan clears his throat. “A while. Since right before I left Williams, actually. We just ... we didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“I see,” Carlos says, a hint of hurt creeping into his voice. “And all those times you were talking about missing each other ...”

You reach out, as if to touch Carlos’ hand, but stop yourself. “That was real. We do miss each other. But it’s ... complicated.”

“Complicated,” Carlos repeats. “Is that why you were so hostile towards me at first? Because I was taking Logan’s place in more ways than one?”

You wince at his words. “Partly, yes. But Carlos, you have to understand, it wasn’t just about that. I really did feel protective of the team, of Logan’s place there.”

Logan puts a hand on your arm, a gesture of support. “Y/N, it’s okay. He deserves the truth.”

You take a deep breath, looking Carlos directly in the eye. “The truth is, Carlos, I started developing feelings for you too. And that ... that scared me. I felt guilty, like I was betraying Logan. So I lashed out.”

Carlos’ breath catches in his throat. “You have feelings for me?”

You nod, a small smile playing at your lips. “Why do you think I gave you that key card?”

Logan chuckles softly. “I told her she was being too subtle. Should have just asked you out like a normal person.”

Carlos looks at Logan, curiosity overriding his confusion. “And you’re ... okay with this?”

Logan shrugs, a wry smile on his face. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I know how Y/N feels about you, and ... well, I can’t say I haven’t noticed you myself.”

Carlos feels his cheeks heat up at Logan’s words. “I ... I don’t know what to say.”

You slide off the arm of the sofa, kneeling in front of Carlos. “You don’t have to say anything right now. We sprung this on you, and it’s a lot to process. But Carlos, I want you to know that what I feel for you is real. And if you’re open to it ... maybe we can figure this out. All of us.”

Carlos looks between you and Logan, his mind racing. This isn’t at all how he expected this evening to go, but he can’t deny the thrill that runs through him at the possibility.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that I’d like that. To figure it out together, I mean.”

Logan grins, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Well, in that case, maybe we should start with dinner? I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving.”

You laugh, the sound breaking the remaining tension in the room. “Trust you to think with your stomach.”

Carlos finds himself smiling too. “Dinner sounds good. But maybe ... maybe we could stay in? Order room service?”

You and Logan exchange a look, then nod in unison. “Sounds perfect,” you say, squeezing Carlos’ hand.

As Logan reaches for the room service menu, and you start picking up the scattered flowers, arranging them in a water glass, Carlos feels a sense of rightness settle over him. This isn’t at all what he had planned, but somehow, it feels like exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Hey,” he says, catching both your attention. “Whatever happens ... I’m glad we’re figuring this out together.”

You and Logan smile back at him, and in that moment, Carlos knows that no matter how complicated things might get, you’re going to be okay. More than okay, actually. You’re going to be amazing.

***

The Williams garage buzzes with pre-race energy, mechanics scurrying about and engineers huddled over last-minute data. In their own bubble despite the controlled chaos, three figures stand slightly apart, heads bent close in hushed conversation.

Carlos glances around before leaning in closer to you and Logan. “Are we sure about this? It’s not too late to change our minds.”

You bite your lip, uncertainty clouding your features. “I don’t know. Maybe we should stick to the original plan. Logan’s just here as a friend, nothing more.”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. “It feels wrong, though. Hiding. Like we’re ashamed or something.”

“We’re not ashamed,” Carlos says quickly, his hand finding Logan’s and squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s just ... complicated.”

You nod, your eyes darting to where your father stands across the garage. “Dad’s going to freak out. And that’s putting it mildly.”

Logan follows your gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “To be fair, I think he’d freak out no matter how we told him. Finding out your daughter is dating not one, but two drivers? That’s a lot for any father to handle.”

Carlos chuckles softly. “Not to mention one of those drivers is his current employee and the other is his former one. It’s like a telenovela.”

You swat his arm playfully. “This isn’t funny. We need to decide what we’re doing. The race starts in less than an hour.”

Logan takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious. “Look, whatever we decide, we’re in this together, right? All of us?”

You and Carlos nod in unison, and for a moment, the three of you just look at each other, drawing strength from your connection.

The moment is broken by the sharp voice of Carlos’ race engineer. “Carlos! We need you for final checks. Now!”

Carlos sighs, reluctantly pulling away from you and Logan. “I guess decision time is here, whether we’re ready or not.”

You reach out, straightening his race suit collar. “Just focus on the race, okay? We can figure everything else out later.”

Logan nods in agreement. “Yeah. Go out there and show them what you’ve got. We’ll be right here cheering you on.”

Carlos looks between the two of you, his eyes softening with emotion. “What did I do to deserve you both?”

Before you or Logan can respond, Carlos makes a split-second decision. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he pulls you close and kisses you deeply, right there in the middle of the garage.

You gasp against his lips, too shocked to pull away. Around you, the activity of the garage comes to a sudden halt, all eyes turning to witness the unexpected display.

But Carlos isn’t done. As he pulls back from you, he immediately turns to Logan, cupping the American’s face in his hands and kissing him with equal passion.

The garage, already silent, seems to hold its collective breath. You can practically hear the gears turning in everyone’s minds as they try to process what they’re seeing.

As Carlos finally steps back, a satisfied smirk on his face, the spell of silence is broken by a loud thud. All heads turn to see their team principal sprawled on the floor in a dead faint.

“Dad!” You cry out, rushing to his side.

Logan and Carlos exchange a panicked look before following you. As you kneel beside your unconscious father, the rest of the team seems to unfreeze, a flurry of whispers and movement erupting around you.

“Someone get the medic!” A voice calls out.

“Did ... did I just see what I think I saw?” Another mechanic mutters.

Logan kneels down next to you, concern etched on his face. “Is he okay?”

You nod, relief washing over you as your father starts to stir. “I think so. Just shocked, I guess.”

Carlos hovers nearby, looking both guilty and defiant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause such a scene. I just ... I couldn’t stand the thought of hiding anymore.”

As James’ eyes flutter open, his gaze immediately locks onto the three of you. “Y/N? Logan? Carlos? What ... what’s going on?”

You take a deep breath, helping your father sit up. “We need to talk. But maybe not right here in the middle of the garage floor?”

James nods weakly, allowing Logan and Carlos to help him to his feet. As they guide him to a nearby chair, you can’t help but notice the mixture of confusion, shock, and curiosity on the faces of your coworkers.

Once your father is settled, he looks between the three of you, his expression a mix of bewilderment and dawning comprehension. “So, when you said Logan was coming to visit for the weekend ...”

You nod, taking both Carlos and Logan’s hands in your own. “It wasn’t just as a friend. The three of us ... we’re together. All of us.”

James blinks rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision. “Together? As in ...”

“As in dating,” Logan says, his voice steady despite the nervousness evident in his posture. “All three of us. We’ve been in a relationship for a few months now.”

Carlos nods, squeezing your hand. “We didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I got ... carried away. But we’re not ashamed of our relationship, and we don’t want to hide it anymore.”

James leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I ... I don’t even know where to begin. Y/N, honey, are you sure about this?”

You meet your father’s gaze, your voice firm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Dad. I love them both. And they love me ... and each other.”

The garage around you is still unnaturally quiet, everyone straining to hear the conversation. You can practically feel the weight of their stares, but in this moment, all that matters is your father’s reaction.

James takes a deep breath, his eyes moving between the three of you. “This is ... a lot to process. But Y/N, if you’re happy ...”

You nod, a smile breaking across your face. “I am. We all are.”

James sighs, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful. At least I don’t have to worry about you dating some playboy from another team.”

Logan chuckles softly. “No, just an IndyCar driver and your star employee.”

The tension in the air starts to dissipate as James shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming. “I have a feeling my life just got a whole lot more complicated.”

You lean down to hug your father tightly. “Thank you for understanding.”

As you straighten up, Carlos’ race engineer clears his throat loudly. “I hate to break up this ... touching moment, but we have a race to drive. Carlos, car. Now.”

Reality comes crashing back as you realize the race is mere minutes from starting. Carlos looks torn, clearly not wanting to leave in the middle of this pivotal moment.

You give him a gentle push towards his car. “Go. We’ll be right here when you finish.”

Logan nods in agreement. “Yeah, babe. Go show them what you’ve got.”

Carlos hesitates for just a moment before a determined look settles over his features. He leans in, placing a quick kiss on your cheek and another on Logan’s before turning to your father.

“James,” he says seriously. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make Y/N happy and to make this team proud.”

James nods, still looking slightly dazed. “Just ... just drive safe out there.”

As Carlos jogs towards his car, the garage seems to come back to life. Mechanics resume their tasks, albeit with frequent glances and whispers in your direction. You, Logan, and your father are left in a small bubble of calm amid the renewed chaos.

Logan clears his throat. “So ... I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you. “You could say that. I think we just gave the entire paddock enough gossip to last the rest of the season.”

James shakes his head, a mix of exasperation and amusement on his face. “You three certainly know how to make an announcement. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t decide to share the news during a press conference.”

As the sound of engines roaring to life fills the air, you find yourself filled with a sense of lightness. The secret’s out, for better or worse, and now you can face whatever comes next together.

Logan puts an arm around your shoulders, and you lean into him, watching as Carlos’ car pulls out of the garage. “Well,” Logan says with a grin, “I guess there’s only one thing left to do now.”

You look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

He winks, guiding you towards the spectator area. “Cheer our boy on, of course.”

***

Four Years Later

The late afternoon sun streams through the windows of the spacious living room, warming over the three occupants. You’re nestled comfortably on the couch, your hands resting on your swollen belly, a contented smile playing on your lips as you watch your two partners bicker good-naturedly.

Carlos paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair in mock distress. “I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Our child, our beautiful baby, will be one-third American!”

Logan, sprawled in an armchair, grins widely. “And what’s wrong with that? Afraid our kid might actually develop some taste?”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Boys, please. The baby can hear you, you know.”

Carlos stops his pacing, turning to you with wide eyes. “Exactly! We need to counteract this American influence immediately. Quick, where’s that Spanish lullaby CD my mother sent?”

Logan snorts. “Oh please, like that’ll do any good against the power of apple pie and freedom.”

“Apple pie?” Carlos scoffs. “Please. Our child will have a sophisticated palate. Paella, gazpacho, tortilla española-”

“Burgers, hot dogs, s’mores,” Logan counters, ticking off on his fingers.

You can’t help but laugh at their antics. “You do realize the baby will be more British than anything else, right? Given that I’m the one actually carrying it?”

Both men turn to look at you, identical expressions of horror on their faces.

“Dios mío,” Carlos whispers. “I didn’t even think of that.”

Logan nods solemnly. “We’re doomed. Our child is going to have terrible teeth and an unhealthy obsession with beans on toast.”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily, laughing. “Watch it, Sargeant. This Brit is the mother of your child.”

Carlos flops down on the couch next to you, placing a gentle hand on your belly. “Don’t worry, mi amor. We’ll make sure our little one has the best of all worlds. The passion of Spain, the ... whatever it is Americans have-”

“Awesomeness,” Logan interjects.

“-and the ... charm of Britain,” Carlos finishes, winking at you.

You lean in to kiss him softly. “Nice save.”

Logan gets up from his chair, moving to sit on your other side. He places his hand next to Carlos’ on your belly. “Hey, little one. Don’t listen to your papa. He’s just jealous because he knows you’re going to prefer peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to croquetas.”

Carlos gasps in mock outrage. “Take that back!”

You groan, leaning back against the couch. “Oh god, is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our lives?”

Both men turn to you with identical grins. “Absolutely,” they say in unison.

Despite your exasperated tone, you can’t help but smile. This is your family, quirks and all, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Suddenly, you feel a strong kick under your partners’ hands. Their eyes widen in surprise and delight.

“Did you feel that?” Logan asks excitedly.

Carlos nods, his eyes shining. “Sí, it was so strong! Our little footballer in the making.”

“You mean soccer player,” Logan adds with a smirk.

Carlos groans. “Por favor, not this again. It’s football, Logan. The rest of the world calls it football.”

“Yeah, well, the rest of the world is wrong,” Logan retorts, sticking out his tongue.

You shake your head, amused. “I swear, sometimes it’s like I have two children already.”

Both men have the grace to look slightly sheepish, but their hands remain on your belly, waiting for another kick.

“You know,” you say thoughtfully, “we still haven’t decided on a name.”

Carlos perks up. “I’ve been thinking about that! What about Carlos III for a boy?”

Logan wrinkles his nose. “Because the current two of you aren’t enough? What about something cool, like Maverick?”

“Maverick?” Carlos repeats incredulously. “What is this, Top Gun?”

“Hey, Top Gun is a classic!” Logan defends.

You clear your throat. “Gentlemen, might I remind you that I get veto power on all names?”

They both turn to you, curious. “What did you have in mind, babe?” Logan asks.

You smile mysteriously. “Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m not sharing until you two can agree on at least one name together.”

Carlos and Logan exchange a look, a silent challenge passing between them.

“Fine,” Carlos says. “How about ... James? It’s a name that works in all our cultures, and it would be a nice nod to your father, Y/N.”

Logan nods slowly. “James ... I like it. Simple, classic. And we could call him Jamie for short.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest. “James is perfect. Dad will be over the moon.”

“James it is then,” Carlos says with a soft smile. “For a boy, at least. What if it’s a girl?”

Logan’s eyes light up. “Oh! What about Liberty? You know, because-”

“Absolutely not,” you and Carlos say in unison.

Logan pouts. “You guys are no fun.”

Carlos chuckles, reaching across you to ruffle Logan’s hair. “Come on, querido. Surely you can think of something better than that.”

Logan leans into the touch, a thoughtful expression on his face. “How about ... Sophia? It’s pretty, and it works in all our languages.”

You nod approvingly. “Sophia is lovely. What do you think, Carlos?”

Carlos smiles. “Sophia is beautiful. Sophia Sainz-Sargeant-Vowles. It has a nice ring to it, no?”

“It’s a mouthful is what it is,” Logan chuckles. “But I love it.”

You feel another kick, stronger this time. “I think the baby approves too.”

Carlos leans down to speak directly to your belly. “Hello there, little one. Are you a James or a Sophia?”

Logan joins in, his voice taking on an exaggerated American accent. “Now listen here, kiddo. Whatever you are, just remember: you’ve got red, white, and blue running through your veins. USA! USA!”

Carlos groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “Dios mío, what have I gotten myself into?”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “A lifetime of this, darling.”

As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the room, you find yourself filled with an overwhelming sense of love and contentment. This unconventional family of yours, with its mix of cultures and personalities, is everything you never knew you needed.

“Hey,” you say softly, drawing both men’s attention. “I love you both. So much. And this baby is going to be so loved, no matter what nationality they end up identifying with.”

Carlos and Logan’s faces soften, all traces of their playful argument disappearing.

“We love you too,” Carlos murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Logan nods, squeezing your hand. “More than anything. All three of you.”

As you sit there, sandwiched between the two men you love, their hands protectively cradling your unborn child, you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them together. Spanish passion, American spirit, and British charm — your child will have the best of all worlds, and a family full of love to support them every step of the way.

[phantomrose96]

My dodgeball friends which are my tennis friends which are my biking friends which are my skiing friends took me skiing again yesterday.

It was only my third time skiing after 10+ years of not doing it, and surreptitiously ("surreptitiously") yesterday was a pure powder day, which we couldn't have predicted when we booked the tickets. Given the absolute zoo of the parking lot, I figured "powder" would be like skiing on a dream.

I was wrong. By god I was wrong. Powder makes you work 10x as hard to turn and control. Powder turns the ski slopes into checkboard patterns of mounds and valleys which, if taken at high enough speed, must generate some kind of musical note. Like a marimba of bad decisions.

I was making noises I wasn't proud of. I was watching my life flash before my eyes. I was voluntarily faceplanting in the snow one time, because my options were voluntary faceplant now or involuntary faceplant later at a speed I could only reach against my own will.

My one validation was reconvening with my friends at lunch and seeing that half of them also looked like they lost a long argument against God at the peak of that mountain, shoveling fries into their mouths and buying $5 powerade because it's that or death.

I got better like I got a feel for it as the day went on. But the fatigue stays with you. More than once I tried to tell my leg muscles to do something and they informed me the sodium-potassium channels were out to lunch. Informed me they were on their union-mandated break, but Good Luck to me and my own. I stopped on the slopes more than once to catch my breath. I flopped right over in the snow at the end of a run. And in the middle of it. And in the middle of the part before the middle.

I escaped the previous two ski sessions without being sore the next day but I knew this time I was done in. Did things to my legs that go against the Geneva convention. Would reap my consequences when the sun returned.

Woke up this morning. Legs were fine. Not just "not bad" but completely, 100% fine. As fine as if I'd done absolutely nothing the previous day.

My UPPER ARMS are killing me though. From, as best I can gather, the gargantuan, mammoth effort of... like pushing myself up from the snow like 5 times.

I should stop skipping arm day.

[sweetheartsaku]

—HAIKYU!! various ; better in the dark

a/n ; [gn!reader] how deep is your love pt 2???!?!! AND YES!! the title is a tv girl reference :3c please dont let this flop!! praying that all the ppl who found pt 1 found this 🥹🩷 tysm for all the notes everyone!! <3

— characters : akaashi, kenma, kita, semi, kageyama, suna

part 1 ! ♡ oikawa, osamu, tsukishima, hinata, sakusa, kuroo

tea roses !

keiji akaashi ; tip toe - HYBS

THIS MAN. he will take you out on absolutely BEAUTIFUL dates. they are scheduled and well thought out, all without you knowing. knows what you like, can predict what you order, where you will sit or do, and KNOWS how to fluster you effortlessly. UNSPOKEN RIZZ AT ITS FINEST YOUR HONOUR!!

at one point he had to resort to the notes app to write what you're like but had realised he had subconsciously memorised all of it by heart. deleted it and still knows you like the back of his hand!!

weirdly knows how to pick the best candles.

the warm, nostalgic smelling ones. candles that are the perfect dash of nostalgia, that feel comforting and warm. i wonder if its in the brain or an instinct thing

for anniversaries or literally just whenever, he makes paper flower bouquets. they are so intricate and every little detail, colour and fold makes it so perfect. in-between classes or when he finishes work early, he'll be nonchalantly folding another smaller flower for the arrangement. he does it so effortlessly too 😭!!

sometimes likes to fiddle with your fingers especially if you wear rings. one of the only and very sweet moments of PDA!! gently rubs his fingertips over your knuckles and tracing all the lines. i need an akaashi keiji in my life

will send you the most beautiful, heart-wrenching and mesmerising poems at an insane hour. you'll wake up with a couple paragraphs about how important healing or taking one step at a time is, making sure you fall in love with yourself everyday too. (please do)

kozume kenma ; cherry wine - grentperez

facinated by painted nails. on holidays he might paint them black, or maybe get a little cat sticker on his index!! pick the colour he'll love it either way

cherishes your little trinkets so much 😞 polaroid of you two and stickers on the back of his phonecase, keeps some of the random stuff you give him in his pocket. you could find a rock you gave him like 3 months ago but he kept it because you said it reminded you of him??

perfectly able and capable to order things by himself, but you know he isn't the type of guy to actually seem to WANT to do it. he is too lazy to actually get up but not lazy enOUGH when it comes to you. he might hide behind you. "HE SAID NO PICKLES!!"

CRAZY beef with your plushies. or anything you hold dear honestly. he can and will get pouty. BEWARE!! you must give him a lil' kiss to earn his attention back. (loves the forehead ones)

sometimes he forgets or just doesn't want to eat. it will get to the extent where you have to spoon feed him,,please remind and encourage him to ! eating, sleeping... just can't do it without a little push.

does this thing with his hands when you cross the road. i don't wanna say grabby hands because its pretty cringe, but it is definitely grabby hands. has no idea why he does it but its such a sweet and small gesture╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ !

cat parents but not exactly cat parents? 🤔 you found this stray cat once, and started visiting it everyday on the way to school. you cared for it, and when kenma picked that up he was also instantly fond of it too. now you both kinda feed it your leftover lunch when you visit the cat after school.. he's so precious with the little cat ueue.. take pictures before the moment fleets!

has the date you two met written on his controller... (he was so hesistant at first though LMAO)

shinsuke kita ; old love - yuji, putri dahlia

uses your initial for math variables. he'll use x or y sometimes, but his first option is ALWAYS your initial. you found this out on a study date once, math talk blablabla and he uses to what seems to you a 'random letter' NO. it is your initial!! 😞 when you ask he seems unfazed, but his ears are pretty red... idk guys i think he wants you

one of the people that make you stiffen up when they get physical. when he lays his head on your shoulder you instantly freeze up, trying not to move a BONE so you won't disturb him. it's like muscle memory to you LMAO.

really pretty, long lashes... if you've read part one, oikawa and tsuki are very similar :0!! loves when you graze his lashes with the back of your index finger

like akaashi, learnt how to make flowers but they're crochet 🥹 i think growing up his grandma had taught him how to crochet and all the little patterns. overtime, dedicated himself to making an arrangement every anniversary... they come with little heartfelt letters too!! (kita boyfie material COME HOME!!)

very routinal as well!! like kuroo (he is the full package) he never misses a morning or night to say good morning or good night. AND he places sticky notes around your desk or places he knows you'll be in reminding you to smile or something along those lines !!

what took the cake for me was when he left a little bag filled with goodies once he realised atsumu was sick 😣 definitely does the same for you... sends bag with a bowl of hot soup his grandma made at your front door

eita semi ; i wish you roses - kali uchis

weirdly immersed in the painting of nails as well. sometimes he'll ask you to paint his in black but he got dress-coded a week later 😓 SIKE gives NO shat and kept them on anyway. they are way too valuable to him to just erase. nails done in a simple colour he likes?? by his s/o?? wiped off?? very funny shiratorizawa

i think + the neighborhood, he likes tv girl, kendrick lamar, childish gambino but has a duality of laufey and beabadoobee's bedroom pop and fuzzy rock??

sick of people making arctic monkeys his personality 😞 musicians arise!! apart from the VBC, hes probably in a band too. small gigs here and there for school, and a few fun sessions with his friends just to play whatever. come to his gigs! (sometimes he'll magically play 10x better when you're around, he says)

share earphones with him PLEASE. on rainy bus rides or walks home, he'll play something you like hehe c:

takes you out to the mall closest to shiratorizawa to go pick up some fast food or a drink. it usually gets really crowded from all the surrounding schools so he keeps you close by the waist

and obviously the basic, will sit with you and teach you the basics of bass or electric guitar. i think he'd play a bit of percussion too (о´∀`о) sometimes he'll take you into his lap, but thats when he feels pretty clingy but very discreetly!!

tobio kageyama ; what would i do? - strawberry guy

please don't try to flirt with him he WON'T UNDERSTAND!!!! *gunshots*

if you say literally anything that isn't directly stating your point, he will not get it. using metaphors or just figurative language in general he is STRUGGLING. you need to say, "you're pretty." because things like "i fall in love with you every day" or "i'll find you in every universe" he will actually look at you BAFFLED. please help this man

thinks about what YOU would do. like when he is in doubt or feels like he's about to lash out, he will take a moment and literally ask himself what you'd do or say. even in tests or something completely unrelated to you he will literally ask himself what you would put in the answer box !!

face scrunch when he gets jealous ! he kinda has a lil' pout but can't bring himself to say anything. when you finally notice him he'll have this lil' (๑ˋ^ˊ ๑) face... please kiss his eyelid or the corner of lips cuz HE HAS TOO MANY PRETTY BOY PRIVILEGES!! (and he'll get flustered it's the cutest) revoke them THIS instant!!

his favourite type of kisses are the ones where you'll push his hair back and give him a forehead kiss. he'll take you in by the waist and keep you close, he likes to listen to your heart because you have his. when he feels clingy, he'll nuzzle his head into your shoulder. what a dork

will attempt to find you at his games pre and post timeskip. before the game he will try to make it not look frantic but one of his members eventually catch on 😞

rintarou suna ; SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK - joji

camera roll is either 0.5's of the most jaw dropping, majestical sunsets and sunrises that he's experienced with you or literally anytime the sky is feeling a little different (if he's not with you at the time he WILL send them to you at either 5am or 7pm saying it reminded him of you) or the CRAZIEST 0.5's of you losing sanity or of you off guard. its wild blackmail material but he chooses not to LMAO. (because of the love in his heart, he says)

has a little photo album for you and anything you related!! he also takes the best candid photos of you and post them on close friends!! (´∀｀)

no. #1 victim of couple tiktok trends. pretends and looks like he doesn't like it, but doesn't want it to end. once you press post he will stare you down with his beautiful ahh olive hazel eyes (he wants more)

last one on the social med side, he mentions you in posts with your initials all the FLIPPIN' TIME!! his dedication is quite endearing

on days where everything becomes overstimulating, he will notice. will eye you for a while, but once he knows when it gets to a certain extent he will hand you an earphone.

anyone who says suna is an arctic monkey's listener is a LIAR I SAID IT I SAID IT!!!!! *more gunshots* JOKES he probably has a couple of their songs in his playlist, but i personally think he's more tyler the creator coded. people who get it get it (avril lavigne sk8r boi? keshi beside you? definitely)

hot adams apple

[bookyeom]

pairing: wonwoo x reader word count: 2.3k warnings: a couple of swears, kissing

Author’s Note: this fic is part of the Thirteen Valentines event, but can be read as a standalone! also, i would suggest listening to the song listed below to get a feel for the vibe of the fic, but it’s not necessary.

idk by jeffrey lenh, joanna

i think that i’ve been falling ever since that day out in the park and i don’t know if this is love, but maybe this could be the start

“I guess this isn’t so bad.”

You open one eye, looking up at Wonwoo from where you’re laying in the grass. His back is resting against a tree, and you watch as the breeze catches a few strands of his hair. It makes you smile, how calm and content he looks.

”I won’t say I told you so, but…”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile. Your eyes don’t leave him as he pushes his glasses up with a finger, his eyes taking in the surrounding park. You like seeing him like this. You’ve managed to drag him out of his dorm room on the first warm, sunny day of the year, and you’re glad he came. You’re always glad when he’s with you, but seeing him bask in the first golden glow of spring is something else.

“You just didn’t want to do this alone, and I was your last resort.”

You tsk, closing your eyes again, letting the warmth of the sun wash over your face. “That’s not true. You’re not my last resort, you’re my charity case. Helping the old man get out of his house and all that.” 

Wonwoo gasps dramatically, and you can’t help the giggle that leaves you at the sound. The two of you fall back into contented silence, the only sounds around you coming from the wind in the trees and some children playing across the field. 

“Seriously,” he speaks up again a few minutes later. “Thanks for forcing me to get off of my computer and outside for a bit. It’s a nice reminder that since winter is finally over, I can take a break from writing essays and gaming inside. So, thanks.”

You’re beaming up at him, even as he avoids your eyes after his little speech, but you know he knows you’re looking. “Glad you’re here,” is all you say. When he sends a smile your way, you know you’ve said the right thing.

You’re so warm — inside and out — that you can’t help but doze off. It’s a little while later when you stir, your eyes fluttering open as you come to. You startle when you realize that you must have nuzzled into the warmth of Wonwoo’s thigh while you slept, and you wince. Then your next thought has you realizing something even worse: his hand is gently resting on your head, and his thumb is brushing soothing circles into your scalp. 

Your breath catches. It feels so intimate, and you know that you absolutely cannot succumb to how you’re feeling, because it’s Wonwoo, and Wonwoo definitely, absolutely, 100% does not like you back. 

You make a show of stretching your toes, and as you predicted, Wonwoo’s movements stop. He drops his hand as you roll onto your back, and you try desperately to hide the blush on your cheeks. “Sorry I fell asleep,” you say, and Wonwoo shrugs, lifting a hand to run through his hair. 

“It’s all good.”

And that’s that.

You watch as Wonwoo games from your spot on his bed, his fingers clicking so fast it makes your head spin. You’re supposed to go out for something to eat soon, but he’d begged you to let him finish one more game. You’d pouted, but you don’t really mind waiting. 

You flop down on his bed, arms falling dramatically out to your sides. It’s been a long few weeks as you and your friends prep for your final papers and exams. The only time you’ve been able to see anyone is when you eat together, and Wonwoo is no exception. It’s been a week or so since you saw him last, and you wish the sight of him would stop making you feel the way it does. That doesn’t seem likely anytime soon, considering that when he’d opened the door tonight, his greeting smile alone had rendered you breathless. Lately, you’re more excited to see Wonwoo than a kid in a candy store, and you’re not sure what you're supposed to do about it.

Because Wonwoo doesn’t like you like that.

“Alright, GamerGirl17. I’m out. Good game.”

Your ears perk up at the username. GamerGirl17. You hear about her from Wonwoo all the time. Apparently, he’s made friends with one of the top players in his favourite game. You can’t believe you’re jealous of an online friend, but you happen to know through Wonwoo that she only lives a couple of hours away. Maybe they were dating already and Wonwoo just hadn’t told anyone? 

Wonwoo regales you with the mission the two of them had just completed as you walk to the restaurant, explaining why it had been so important to finish. You’re not a gamer yourself, but Wonwoo always listens to you talk about your niche hobbies, so you’re always willing to listen to him. 

Except today, apparently, because for some reason you’re more irritated than usual about the topic of Miss Gamer Girl. 

“Have you asked her out?” 

You interrupt Wonwoo mid-speech. You don’t look at him as you ask, but you can tell he’s surprised by the way he stumbles a bit, catching himself before he trips into a garden of freshly blooming flowers. 

“Huh? Who?”

You glance at him as you near the burger place. “GamerGirl17.”

Wonwoo’s footsteps slow, and you raise your eyebrows at him. He doesn’t say anything else for a minute as you enter the restaurant. It isn’t until you’ve sat down and ordered drinks that he answers you, and you clench your fists in an attempt to stay calm.

“I’m not going to ask her out,” Wonwoo says, and you meet his gaze. He looks embarrassed to say it.

“Why? You like her, no?”

Wonwoo’s mouth opens and closes a bit. He looks down and away from you, suddenly finding something on his empty plate far more interesting. “Um,” he tries again, “I’m not really interested in… in dating anyone right now, I guess?” 

Your heart sinks as you try to decide if that’s better or worse for you. You think worse.

Ouch.

”Oh,” you reply with a slow nod. You clear your throat. “That’s cool, then. I just wasn’t sure, that’s all.”

Your food arrives soon after, and you try to push past the awkward conversation by asking for pictures of Wonwoo’s parents’ new puppy. It works to distract him, but you don’t forget his comment. 

I’m not interested in anyone right now.

“I’m sorry for the last minute notice,” you offer as you wait by Wonwoo’s door. “I didn’t know I left it here.”

He hums in acknowledgement as he grabs your cardigan from the back of his chair. “It’s all good.” 

You try to ignore the once over he gives you as he hands you the sweater. You’re dressed up, and you feel a bit embarrassed under his gaze, though you’re not sure why. “Thanks.”

“Where…” Wonwoo trails off, and you watch as he leans against the doorframe. He’s gathering his thoughts, and you hate that he’s got you feeling nervous for no reason, even now when you’re about to go on your first date in months. You know you look nice dressed up in your cute flower pattern outfit for spring, but you feel so shy when he looks at you. “Where are you going?” 

“Um,” you clear your throat, “Kwan set me up on a date with a friend of his.”

Wonwoo’s eyes widen, and he straightens. You wish you could disappear into the floor. “Oh.”

”Yeah.” Your cheeks are on fire. You need to leave, now. You pretend to glance at your phone as you say, “I should probably get going.” You hold up the cardigan. “Thanks for the missing piece of my outfit.” 

As you turn to leave, your eyes squeeze shut briefly. It hurts to know he doesn’t want you in the same way, but you think you’ve just officially confirmed it. You inhale a shaky breath, willing the tears to remain at bay as you descend the stairs to the lobby. 

You’ve almost reached the front door when you hear footsteps rapidly approaching behind you, and you turn in surprise. Your heart jumps into your throat when you realize it’s Wonwoo, barefoot and out of breath.

“Wonwoo, what—“

“Don’t go.”

You pause. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, and you’re confused. He can’t mean what you think he means, not after all this time. Your lip starts to tremble. 

He seems to notice, a hand lifting in your direction as he takes a step closer, and your breath catches. He doesn’t touch you, though, just looks at you for a moment, mouth opening and closing. Then he quickly glances around the room. The only other people around are the Resident Assistant at his desk and a couple of other students walking in and out of the building. After a second, Wonwoo gently takes you by the elbow and around the corner so you’re tucked away, and he’s suddenly so close that you can’t breathe. 

“When I said I didn’t want to date anyone right now, I meant anyone else. Other people.” His words are jumbled and rushed, and your eyebrows knit together.

Your back slumps to rest against the wall behind you. He’s not making sense, but you have a feeling in your stomach, and you can’t believe what you think is happening here. You can’t. “Wonwoo,” you say quietly, voice trembling, “You need to be super clear with me right now, because I can’t…”

You trail off, and Wonwoo steps even closer. The proximity causes you to straighten, every single part of you on edge. You still don’t know if it’s good or bad.

His eyes search yours. Then he speaks, voice so soft and sure that you think it surprises even him. “I meant that I don’t want to date anyone other than you.”

Your mouth falls open. You search his face, desperately trying to comprehend what he’s just said. You can tell he’s nervous, and your immediate instinct would usually be to comfort him, but right now, you can’t think. You can’t breathe. When you don’t say anything, he takes a step back. 

“I’m sorry. You can go on your date, I just… I needed you to know—“

“Wonwoo.” It comes out strangled, but you had to say something. Anything to stop him from leaving. He stops, and all you can do is shake your head in disbelief. He gives you a moment, his gaze falling to the floor, but you can’t look away from him. “If you mean that,” you say slowly, “then I’m not going anywhere.”

Wonwoo blinks back at you. It’s almost comical, how wide his eyes have gotten behind his glasses. The way you can practically see him buffering. 

“You’re not?” He finally says, and you can hear the relief in his voice. It makes your heart ache a little, because how can he not know how you feel? You shake your head. 

“Unless you have other plans.” Your voice is shy, uncertain, but he’s quick to quell your fears.

“No,” he says, firm. “I’m all yours.” 

The second the door to his room closes, you’re in his arms. You’re feeling so unbelievably shy at all these new revelations, and you can tell he is, too. He stumbles a bit when you wrap your arms around his waist, face pressed to his chest, but he’s quick to respond. His arms pull you in tight as he laughs, and you can feel it against your cheek. 

You don’t remember the last time you felt this nervous. 

“Wonwoo?”

He hums, and you gather enough courage to pull back and look up at him. When your eyes meet, you have to resist the urge to hide your face from him again. He looks so fond. So happy.

You don’t know what you were going to say as your gaze falls to his mouth. You watch as he swallows, his fingers gently squeezing where they rest on your waist in an attempt to help you refocus, but it’s a lost cause. 

“You’d think I’ve never kissed anyone before with how nervous I am right now.”

The words are out before you can stop them, and you’re absolutely mortified. Your hands immediately lift to cover your face. A few seconds of silence pass, and then you realize that Wonwoo is laughing. 

“Oh, is that what we’re about to do? Kiss?” 

You freeze. Is he… teasing you?

“What happened to shy Wonwoo from before? Bring him back,” you whine, hands falling from your face to send him a glare. 

“He knows you like him back now, so he’s a bit more confident.” He’s grinning, and you pout. He quirks an eyebrow, one hand lifting to your jaw as he adds, “He knows now that he makes you nervous.”

You would be absolutely scandalized by his words if it weren’t for what happens next. Because suddenly he’s kissing you, and all bets are off. 

It’s not much, just a soft press of his mouth to yours, but it’s enough. 

“For the record,” Wonwoo says as he pulls away, and you vaguely register the flush of his cheeks under the dim lamplight, “you make me nervous as hell, too.”

“For the record,” you smile, “I don’t want to go on a date with anyone that’s not you, either.”

A/N: thank you so much to everyone for all the love on pov! Here’s the second of our Thirteen Valentines. I can only see Nana Tour Glasses!Wonwoo, all the time.

Please please please reblog if you can to spread the word, and check out the Thirteen Valentines masterlist! If you want to be added to the taglist, send me a message :)

Taglist: @waldau @wqnwoos @tae-bebe @gyuminusone @savventeen @eoieopda @minisugakoobies @wheeboo @lvlystars @darkypooo @christinewithluv

[dooberific]

❝ 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘤 ❞

woo jinchul x afab!reader

genre: slice of life in the office hehe, reader works in the surveillance department, part one of “how many fics does it take for ao3 to recognize a tag”, this is super niche and it shouldn’t be bc he is FINE, also idk anything abt horoscopes, no beta we die like E rank hunters that aren’t sung jinwoo

summary: he thinks horoscopes are bullshit, but you find them to be the spice of life

wk: 2.4k

It was his birthday.

Truly just any other day according to his calendar, he didn’t deign to circle it in red pen like it was some great accomplishment to have been born into the world. Just a blank square printed in black ink, the date burnished in matching block lettering under some ridiculous picture of kittens that changed with the month (it was a new years gift and he was not so proud to not use a functional gift even if it was given for laughs).

Just as every year previously there would be no mystical sign of good will: his coffee would taste just as bitter and laden with a plastic aftertaste from a cheap coffeemaker, his meetings would still drag by painfully slow, and the weather wouldn’t miraculously clear up and render him feeling silly for carrying an umbrella in with him today.

Just another twenty-four hour cycle, a drop in the bucket of a year.

He hadn’t even turned his computer monitor on before you sauntered into his office, pausing just a foot into the door to rap your knuckles against the frame for good measure. There was a newspaper tucked under your arm, your purse still dangling from the crook of your elbow.

“Goodmorning, manager!”

The daily ritual had begun in earnest with your arrival. It hadn’t been an existing routine of much note prior to you being hired into the Surveillance department a little over a year and a half ago, he simply arrived early and began working on extraneous paperwork that would otherwise force him to clock out late (which was unacceptable in his book). He had exactly forty-five minutes of quiet to get as much work done as possible, then the first of the others would begin to filter in and take their seats until the office grew to buzz with life.

It was a sacred moment of peace until you took the habit of arriving early as well…just not to accomplish any work. You said it was your “self-help” time to formulate your “daily affirmations”, but that was absolute bullshit and he called you on it as soon as he had gathered ample evidence.

For example, you would stow your purse and kick back at your desk perusing the newspaper you bought on the way to work which based on the title was more of a tabloid laden with cheap gimmicks and a hearty coupon section. Then of course there were your “daily affirmations”, sticky notes pasted to the edges of your monitor that were more like to-do and not-to-do notes based on your mood or observations of coworkers.

You weren’t even the slightest bit ashamed when he passed your desk and paused just to read aloud that you should “really ask Manager Woo what hair product he uses because his hair always looks so shiny.”

He would never admit that he was more mortified by it than you, as your face simply lit up as you swiveled in your chair to face him and ask, “So what is your secret, manager?”

He gave up after that, integrating you into his morning routine wordlessly, or at least he attempted to before you decided that he may also be in need of some of your “self-help” in the form of the daily horoscopes finished off with a coupon clipped from the centerfold usually for some cheap noodle place or a supermarket.

The only reason you even knocked on his door anymore was because he scolded you for it once, your mood terribly lax as you unceremoniously flopped into the chair across from his desk, the newspaper snapping to attention.

“Will you tell me what your birthday is today, or shall I read you all the predictions?”

“You could skip reading them at all today.”

You flipped the paper down momentarily over your lap. “But if I did that you would certainly be crawling with curiosity before lunch break.”

“Doubtful,” he countered, not sparing you a glance as he typed something on his computer, “if you aren’t to be swayed then by all means, continue.”

Your smug expression was hidden behind a thin veneer of black and white print as you dutifully began to share the horoscope of the day. It was largely as droll as the weather, many struggling to find the light at the end of the theoretical tunnel as it quickly began to sound more like you were unearthing a curse. It seemed even your lauded astrologer could have bad days, or maybe they just anticipated hating the whole world except the very select few whose birthdays happened to align within the weeks around his own.

You groaned loudly, head flopping over the backrest of your chair. “What a downer, looks like luck isn’t on my side today.” Your head rolled up just enough to peer across the space at him, “Any auspicious wishes coming your way, manager?”

He shook his head. One white lie couldn’t hurt you, even if it crossed his mind that you would be fuming all day at his luck that on the one bad day he had managed to walk out of it unscathed according to this cheap newspaper horoscope. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you in this case, but what you did know certainly seemed to have a tangible effect.

The horoscope was like the tip of an iceberg, or the event that triggered a butterfly effect. He blamed it first on the weather, half the department slogging in soaked from the rain and late by fifteen minutes. Then the power flickered and crashed all the computers on the floor, the elevator got stuck between floors, and another woman broke a heel.

The mood of the office was quickly deteriorating, your expression souring with each passing hour before you declared to him at lunch that the day was unsalvageable. He simply took it as proof that your ridiculous horoscopes were horseshit, whatever auspiciousness meant to shine down on him like a blessing from the heavens was out the window with the first incident of the day, the office more like a runaway train than a well oiled machine.

He hadn’t seen the department clear out as quickly as it did today, everyone anxiously watching the clock so they could abandon ship in hopes of a better day tomorrow. He would be a liar if he claimed he didn’t wish for a quiet evening himself, he didn’t consider himself a control freak but the organized chaos of the day had rendered him feeling like one from the mounting migraine he could feel throbbing behind his eyes.

Maybe he should write to that stupid newspaper you liked and tell them to fire that astrologer, as he found himself wishing to blame them for the foul luck that had rolled back onto him.

Speaking of that cursed paper, it now hung limply from your fingertips, waterlogged pages dripping down onto the tiles where you stood by the entrance door to the Hunters Association. Your brow was drawn in frustration as you paced back and forth speaking to someone on the phone before you ended the call with a huff.

“Oh hey manager, heading home for the night?”

Your tone was laced with poorly masked irritation, cheek drawn between your teeth. It wasn’t often that you got worked up like this, an admirable trait considering the strain of your job.

He nodded, eyes darting to his car in the parking lot, the downpour of rain shielding in a sheen of gloomy grey.

“I’m surprised you’re still here.” He noted, watching your expression shift uncomfortably for a moment as you let out an awkward laugh.

“Yeah my uh, car won’t start.”

How this would be something that would render you embarrassed was beyond him, but perhaps it was just your exhaustion getting the better of you as you shuffled in place and toyed with your phone.

“I called for a rideshare service but they said it will be an hour because of the rain, so I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

A sigh blew through your lips. “What rotten luck.”

Rotten luck attributed to a rotten day based on the rotten assumptions of some person who made up a fortune for the day. You were lucky he was a generous manager, even luckier that he was feeling spiteful over the ridiculous nature of the day and determined to make you question your choice in reading material.

“Would you like a ride home?”

You perked up immediately.

It was a short walk to his car, slightly longer when dodging the standing water that puddled in deceptively shallow appearing pools. The rain thundered against the canvas of his umbrella, your body warm where you pressed close to his side to fit beneath it compared to the cold chill of water that soaked his opposing shoulder as he favored keeping you covered.

You thanked him profusely as he opened the passenger door for you, sliding into the front seat. Your mood had managed to shift dramatically in the time it took for him to round the car and join you, your face sheepish.

“I am so sorry.” You squeaked, earning a raised brow before you presented your sin before his eyes.

His sunglasses were cradled in your presented palms, the frame bent and one lens cracked down the middle. His hand quickly patted the breast pocket of his jacket as if surprised that his glasses weren’t nestled within it. He had pulled them from his pocket this very morning and tossed them into the passenger seat without second thought convinced he wouldn’t need them on such a dreary day.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

But it was obviously not fine because now you felt like you had intruded too far into his space and were wishing to be incinerated where you sat from the shame of crushing his sunglasses under your ass after he had been kind enough to offer you a ride home.

You further wished to die when he opened your door for you once you arrived, shielding you from the rain all the way to the entrance to your building. God, this horoscope was really kicking your ass in the worst way, and you had no lucky stars to even dream of thanking.

“Thank you again, Sir. And I’m really sorry about your glasses.”

He huffed, expression as stoic as ever, more miffed that you refused to drop the issue at hand. “Don’t worry about it, I can always buy another pair.”

“Here, before you go,” you fished a slip of paper from your purse as you pressed it into his palm. A coupon for a fried chicken restaurant from the newspaper insert, the edges crumbled from being in your bag. “Forgot to give you this earlier, hopefully it brings you a little luck today.”

He thanked you as he put it in his pocket, knowing he would certainly forget it there in favor of just showering and calling it a night, bidding you farewell as you parted ways.

Just as expected, his birthday was little more than a dreary day of underwhelming circumstance. Leftovers for dinner, whatever tv program he set to record failed to air from a power outage, a new suit to add to the stack for dry cleaning. He congratulated himself on another year of keeping his expectations low, and cursed that his tolerance to alcohol was high as the single beer he let himself have on a weeknight wasn’t nearly enough to ease the stress of the day from his shoulders before bed.

Delightfully forgettable, a single day in a grueling week of little import. Or at least he was under the impression that it was until he came back from lunch break a few days later to a small case sitting on the edge of his desk, a highlighter pink sticky note that looked suspiciously like the ones decorating your desk pasted on top of it.

He knew immediately what the case was, having thrown away an identical one a few nights prior after you broke his sunglasses on accident (the same glasses which he suspiciously couldn’t find any evidence of in his car after the fact). What he didn’t know was how the hell you figured it out, your curling script wishing him a belated birthday in black ink.

Woo Jinchul was not the manager of the surveillance department for no reason. He was a problem solver, that much you knew for sure the moment he rapped his knuckles against your desk when you returned from lunch and told you that you needed to have a talk. You genuinely thought you had done something wrong, as did all your coworkers based on the grim expression he wore as he told you to shut the door behind you as you entered his office.

“Who told you?”

You were practically perched on the edge of your seat. “Who told me what?”

“Who told you that it was my birthday?”

The conversation was oddly intense for such a dull topic to be the subject. Your eyes drifted to the side as your face pinched in a strange fashion. “You mentioned it in passing.”

His fingers drummed on the surface of his desk for a moment. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Your shoulders slumped. “I know, but I’m sworn to secrecy so I really can’t tell you.”

“So the Chairman told you then.”

“What, no—“

“You can drop the defense. He’s the only one who tries to make a big deal out of it.”

You propped your cheek into your palm, a halfhearted, “but you’re making a big deal out of it too,” muttering from between your lips.

“I don’t want it to be a big deal, because it isn’t one. So this conversation,” he plucked your pink sticky note off his desk and crumbled it up in his fist before dropping it into the trashcan, “never happened. You’re dismissed.”

You discreetly rolled your eyes as you stood from your seat, sauntering to the door before you paused, door cracked half open as you glanced at him over your shoulder. He was right to be wary of the dangerous look in your eye, as you both were keenly aware of the level of voice projection required to keep conversations private in the crowded space.

“Hey Manager Woo?”

He winced in anticipation, your tone loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby.

Your grin was wicked. “You smell so good today, what cologne do you wear?”

He pinched his brow between his fingers with a heavy sigh.

“Get out.”

“Of course, Sir,” you hummed as you pushed the door fully open.

“Cute cat calendar by the way.”

His eyes were narrowed on your back as you returned to your desk. You were feeling emboldened based on the fortune of the ridiculous horoscopes you recited for him first thing this morning.

He really should write to that newspaper and get that astrologer fired.

Rey 2025

[onegayastronaut]

Wrapped in Love

Requested by anon: Could you write a Maya x Carina x Reader fic where Reader breaks her elbow and has to depend on Maya and Carina? Reader ignores the fact that she’s one armed for a few weeks and at first she tries to solve everything on her own but always ends up in some funny situation, so she accepts the help Maya and Carina are offering to her.

Words: 1571

You were fine. Totally fine. Absolutely, 100%, no-questions-asked fine.

Okay, so your elbow was broken. And maybe it was in a bulky cast that rendered your dominant arm completely useless. And maybe you had already been warned by both Maya and Carina—several times, actually—to stop trying to do things on your own and let them help you. But were you listening? Absolutely not. The kitchen was a battlefield, and you were losing.

With only one functional arm—your right, considering your left was encased in a stiff, cumbersome cast—you were trying to make something simple. A grilled cheese sandwich shouldn’t be this hard. But apparently, when you were missing one crucial limb, even buttering bread was a feat worthy of an Olympic medal.

You huffed, trying to balance the butter knife between your fingers while holding the bread in place. Predictably, it slipped out from under you, flopping onto the counter unceremoniously. “Great,” you muttered, exasperated.

As if the universe enjoyed your struggle, that was exactly the moment Maya and Carina walked in.

Maya, ever the observant one, clocked the mess immediately. Her hands went to her hips, eyebrows raising as she took in the state of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Carina, slightly behind her, made a softer noise of dismay. “Amore, you should have called one of us.”

You tried to play it cool, giving them a small, totally-not-guilty smile. “I was just making myself a quick sandwich.”

Maya crossed her arms, stepping forward. “With one arm?”

“Well… yeah?”

Carina sighed, shaking her head. She was at your side in an instant, gently plucking the butter knife from your fingers. “You are injured, tesoro. Let us take care of you. It is a miracle you have not lost a finger yet.”

“I can take care of myself,” you insisted, though the way Carina’s fingers ghosted over your hand, warm and loving, made your heart stutter in your chest.

Maya shot you a pointed look before stepping past you, grabbing a pan. “Yeah, and look how well that’s going. At this rate, you’ll be back in the ER before the cast even comes off.”

You groaned and threw your head back. “You two are being so dramatic.”

“We’re being reasonable,” Maya corrected. “And you,” she poked your nose playfully, “are being stubborn.”

You pouted but didn’t argue, especially not when Carina pressed a soft kiss to your temple before guiding you toward the kitchen table. “Sit. Let us handle dinner.”

Defeated but secretly pleased, you let yourself be ushered into a chair. “You guys really don’t have to,” you said, watching as Maya expertly set the stove to the right temperature while Carina gathered ingredients.

“Oh, but we do,” Carina said, flashing you a knowing smile. “Because we love you. And because we like taking care of you.”

Maya shot you a smirk as she prepped the pan. “And because, quite frankly, watching you struggle with that sandwich was painful.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the warmth that blossomed in your chest. They always had this way of making you feel so safe, so cherished. And though you were more than capable of handling yourself, the tenderness with which they fussed over you was something you’d never grow tired of.

From your seat, you watched them move seamlessly around the kitchen. Maya, precise and efficient, managing the stove while Carina worked gracefully beside her, layering cheese and buttering the bread with ease. They were a perfect team, an unspoken rhythm existing between them that was mesmerizing to watch.

“You two are disgustingly domestic,” you teased, a fond smile tugging at your lips.

Carina tossed you a wink. “And yet you love us.”

You sighed dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. I do.”

Maya turned toward you, her eyes soft, her smirk turning into something more tender. “Good. Because we love you too. And we’re always going to take care of you, whether you ask for it or not.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, feeling the depth of their words settle into your bones. Love, unwavering and warm, surrounded you in that tiny kitchen, filling every space between the three of you.

And as they set a perfectly golden grilled cheese in front of you, Carina pressing a kiss to your good shoulder while Maya squeezed your hand, you realized you’d never felt so completely and utterly at home.

The real breaking point happened a few days later. You had woken up before either of them, determined to prove that you could get ready on your own. And it was going well! Sort of. Mostly. Until you reached the final boss of morning routines: pants.

You gritted your teeth, hopping on one foot as you tried to yank your jeans up with one hand. The first leg had been a challenge, but the second? A nightmare. Just as you were about to finally succeed, your foot snagged, and you lost your balance. You barely had time to yelp before you went tumbling sideways onto the bed with a thump.

Maya groaned from under the covers. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Uh…nothing?”

A second later, Carina’s head popped up from the other side of the bed, sleep still clouding her eyes. “That did not sound like nothing.”

You sighed dramatically. “I was trying to put on my pants.”

There was silence. Then Maya burst out laughing. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, sitting up and rubbing her face. “You fell trying to put on your pants?”

You groaned, burying your face in the comforter. “I almost had it.”

Carina made a sympathetic noise and rolled out of bed, walking over to you. “Tesoro, why did you not wake us up?”

“Because I wanted to do it myself!”

Maya shook her head, grinning. “Yeah, and how’d that work out for you?”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “I don’t need this attitude first thing in the morning.”

Carina knelt beside you, her hands gentle as she helped you sit up properly. “You do not need to do everything alone,” she murmured, brushing a stray hair from your face.

Maya flopped back onto the bed, still grinning. “Yeah, and let’s be real—you suck at being one-armed.”

You groaned but finally—finally—gave in. “Okay, fine. Maybe I could use a little help.”

Carina smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Grazie, amore.”

Maya smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Over the next few weeks, the two of them took turns making sure you weren’t struggling too much, though you still had your moments of stubbornness. Like the time you tried to do your own hair and ended up with the worst, most lopsided ponytail in the history of ponytails. It had started out simply enough, how hard could it be? You had pulled your hair up a thousand times before. But, of course, doing it with one hand was an entirely different beast. You managed to gather your hair into a lopsided pile on top of your head, but every attempt to secure it resulted in the elastic slipping off, your hair tumbling back down into an even bigger mess.

After ten minutes of struggling, you refused to give up. You clenched the elastic between your teeth and tried again, but the moment you attempted to twist it with one hand, the band shot out of your mouth, flying across the room and smacking against the dresser with a pathetic thwap. You groaned, frustration bubbling up inside you. That was the exact moment Maya walked in.

She took one look at your wild, half-gathered, completely chaotic hair and immediately burst out laughing. “Oh my god. What are you doing?”

You turned to her, exasperated. “What does it look like? I’m trying to do my hair!”

Maya wiped tears from her eyes as she walked over. “Babe, I hate to break it to you, but it looks like your hair is winning this battle.”

Before you could retort, Carina entered, her expression immediately softening when she saw the situation. “Tesoro, why did you not ask for help?”

“Because I thought I could do it myself,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

Carina clicked her tongue and walked over, gently running her fingers through your tangled strands. “Let us help you.”

Maya hopped onto the bed, patting her lap. “Yeah, come here. Let your firefighter wife show you how it’s done.”

You hesitated for a second before finally sighing and sitting in front of her. Maya expertly gathered your hair, making sure to smooth out the bumps before securing it into a perfect ponytail. She gave the band a playful snap before leaning over your shoulder. “See? Easy.”

Later that morning when you insisted on pouring your own coffee, only to misjudge the angle and spill half of it down the front of your shirt. Carina simply sighed and handed you a towel, while Maya teased, “Oh no, how will you ever put on a clean shirt by yourself?”

Despite your stubbornness, you had to admit—it wasn’t so bad having them take care of you. It wasn’t about needing help; it was about letting the people who loved you be there for you.

And, as Maya helped you into your coat one afternoon while Carina tied your shoelaces, you realized that maybe, just maybe, being a little less independent wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

[nizhspo]

saltwater secrets

chapter nine: scent memory

genre: haikyuu fic, slow burn

pairing: tooru oikawa x reader

links: m.list, next

you drive home with the windows down.

still in your tie-dye shirt. still covered in sand. your hands shake a little on the wheel—not from nerves, just from exhaustion. you play something low on the stereo, something familiar, a burned mix CD that skips during track seven. the sky outside is orange and pink and too pretty to look at directly.

you get home, peel off your shirt, and shower with the water just a little too hot. you step in, let it hit your skin, and within seconds, there it is: the shimmer, the pull, the flicker of orange curling down your legs.

you sigh, lean back against the tile, and let your tail settle beneath you. your legs feel like jelly anyway, might as well let the transformation finish while the steam works on your shoulders.

the mirror fogs. you don’t bother clearing it. you already know the shape of yourself like this. the scales, the glint, the weight.

you sit on the floor of the tub and rinse off slowly, careful around your fins, and when you’re done, you drag yourself out, dripping and cold, and lay across a towel on the bathroom rug.

grab the blow dryer, aim, wait. watch your tail fade, piece by piece.

then you crawl into bed, skin warm, hair damp, and your mind full of someone who still doesn’t know the half of you.

you flip your phone open with one hand, the plastic hinge clicking open like muscle memory. the screen lights up dim green and you scroll to messages with the arrow key.

the keypad feels clunky under your thumbs, but you’re good at this by now—t9 on, brain already predicting your next words.

you type fast, hardly thinking:

[you: come over]

[yachi: already packing snacks]

[you: i need 2 get out of my head]

[yachi: say less]

she shows up in pajama shorts and a faded hoodie with the fukurodani owl on the back, a pink polka-dotted pillow tucked under one arm and a plastic bag full of off-brand fruit snacks in the other. she kicks her flip flops off in the doorway and crawls onto your bed like she’s done a thousand times before.

“you wanna debrief?” she asks.

“do i have a choice?”

“absolutely not.”

you sit beside her, both of you cross-legged, your TV playing a fuzzy rerun of lizzie mcguire in the background. the ceiling fan whirs overhead, just barely cutting the heat.

she tilts her head. “so… the hand on the waist thing?”

you roll your eyes. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

“mmhm.”

“seriously. he’s like that with everyone. you’ve seen him. he’s… him.”

“he is him,” she agrees. she says simply, and that’s why you love her. because she doesn’t argue. doesn’t push. just lets you say what you need to say.

but you know that look.

you glance sideways. “what?”

“nothing,” she hums. “just—when i was watching one of oikawa’s matches earlier, i was standing near some girls from aoba johsai. cheer girls, i think. they were talking.”

“about?”

“him. obviously.”

you hesitate. “…what’d they say?”

she shrugs. picks at a loose thread in the blanket. “one of them said he was hooking up with this girl, like, up until two weeks ago. a junior. apparently they were, like, really on-and-off, not serious, but still a thing.”

your stomach does that dip.

“and?”

“and,” she continues, slow, “she found out he’d hooked up with one of her teammates, like, two months ago. another girl from their cheer squad. he never told her. she found out through someone else.”

you don’t say anything.

just stare at the ceiling.

“he stopped texting her after that,” yachi adds, voice quieter. “like, just done. hasn’t said a word since.”

you close your eyes and your heart folds in on itself just a little. just enough to ache.

yachi stretches out beside you, settling her head on your other pillow. she doesn’t push. she doesn’t say i told you so. she just starts texting hinata on her flip phone, the soft clicking of keys filling the silence.

your skin still feels warm where oikawa’s hand rested earlier. you can still smell him if you try hard enough: clean, soft, a little sweet, like lavender soap and boyish heat and a scent that doesn’t belong to any one person.

you turn your face toward the wall.

yachi keeps texting, murmuring things like “i miss you too” and “you should’ve seen her, she was insane,” and it’s comforting, that familiarity, that noise.

you fall asleep slowly, wondering if maybe oikawa smells like that because he knows what it does to people.

wondering if he ever really looked at you at all.

[gaybirdnerd]

I'm watching top gun Maverick for the second time this week and I have some notes:

The little hints that Mav has kept up with Rooster's life scattered throughout the beginning when he's at the hangar.

That little nod to Goose through Mav asking him to be there with him during the test flight, later parodied by Rooster asking his dad for advice during the mission.

The way Mav is just so easily picked up after his Overboard, like he quite literally goes stiff and makes it easier, this man has been picked up a time or two and you can tell

The absolute devastation in his gaze when he sees Rooster in person and Rooster reminds him of his dad.

Love Hondo and all he does for this movie.

"His exploits are legend" and Hangman looking back and just realizing how fucking screwed he is when he realizes he threw this man out of a bar yesterday.

The little cute ass "good morning" and standing awkwardly there waiting for a reply, I wanna bite him

Rooster BEEF

Now we get into the fun part where Mav shows just how good he is

"This guy need an ego check" says you Hangman

This man nearly kills his recruits first second, he coulda so easily hit their wings on accident lmao

"Don't let him get to you Maverick" (don't let your pseudo son bully you, it's ok)

And now he's showing them why his exploits are legendary

Again, coulda hit his recruits

His little "come get me" while being chased by Hangman is so good

Now hangman shows he's an asshole but also that upside down maneuver turning into a REALLY dangerous game of cat and mouse.

Tbf the planes going down like that looks kinda awesome.

Mav giving Rooster a chance and some motivating words and then getting him with the cobra maneuver is just *chef's kiss*

Hey, why couldn't Maverick just TELL Rooster why he pulled his papers? Like??

"And how to come home" he's so traumatized, someone hug this man

Him having a hard deck request in his hands while being chewed out lmfao

"Highly DECORATED captain :) " he's so proud of himself. You think he's stopped himself from getting promoted? Like on purpose?

Him and Penny are so cute, even when they're pretending they're not gonna get together again

She can feel his EYES on her ASS and tbh I don't blame him LOOK AT HER

"We're gonna take it easy on you" (no one succeeds anyway)

Coyote holy fuck don't break check your wingman, even on accident

Hangman being a little bitch

"They couldn't keep up".... Would this man be like this in the face of actual tragedy?

Rooster, grow some balls please, your ego shouldn't be as big as it is

Hangman needs to shut the fuck up about what happened to Goose, esp around Rooster

Smack the look off your own face or I'll do it for you

In other words Maverick is so small, such a baby, smol baby

"You're all dismissed" *proceeds to angst over what happened with Goose for hours which is so fucking valid tho*

"It's come back" fuck he can read her face so easily and knows at this moment he's about to lose another brother.

The way Ice gets Mav to talk so easy 😭😭

Mav is so traumatized 😭😭😭

"I'm not a teacher, Ice, I'm a fight pilot" YOU'RE A DAD NOW, FUCKER, THESE KIDS ARE YOURS

God Mav tearing himself up about the decision to keep or lose Rooster.

"It hurts for him to talk" and he still gives his little speech ugh, I love Ice

*empty air space* took the kids on a field trip and it WORKS

Who the fuck goes to the beach in jeans? So many of them apparently.

That little flopping down celebration at Hangman's toss of the ball

Mav the old man needs a rest

Bob is a God, they're so right for celebrating him

Hondo is a precious baby who gets tackled by everyone

That little "leave the door open" move *gnaws on penny*

Not Mav accidentally predicting the future by asking about if he should leave

Getting parenting advice about Rooster subtly and he's so guilty about what he did to him

Dad!Mav is love, Dad!Mav is life

*makes him go out the window but he still gets caught lol*

God I could never imagine how it actually feels to get into 9 Gs or more

Mav is messing with them, pretty sure in an unscheduled way, I'm glad he did because of how Coyote G-locked

This test run just went completely to shit, huh?

Mav's worst fear

"Easy for you to say" Rooster, you think that might be a little fucking sad for him? That he's got no one in his life?

After getting a verbal lashing from his best friend's son, he gets told his other best friend is fucking dead, how is this man still existing as a person? I'd be a wreck

Triple whammy, he's being fired from his job to teach the impossible

And, you know, his job

Do you think Mav doesn't react if he's called Peter?

The asshole who takes over for Mav just... Needs to stop assuming he knows everything. Glad he gets humbled tho

This test flight is just dkfbeisndob3f

The way you can hear how hard it is on his body, the way he SKIMS past hills, the bullseye as he gets to 10 Gs and loses a good bit of his vision

"Sir, I-" shut up and take it Mav

THE GOODBYE TO PENNY AHHHHH

He pretty cute in this uniform tho 👀

"Talk to me Goose" just fucking shoot me, it's less painful

Hangman has gotta be pissed but I'm glad he takes the decision seriously and supports it

Rooster, way bad timing, talk to dad2 later

"If I don't see you again Hondo, thank you" fuck you, come back alive

LOVE the team name being Dagger

That cloud cover would have me crashing out so fast

Looking at Rooster before starting the mission officially

Rooster go fucking faster, please. I know it's scary but please

"Talk to me dad" *Mav talks to him* AAHH??

Hmm, needs me a wingfic where Mav can just do all this stuff without a plane

THE GOING UPWARDS IS THE SCARIEST PART

Rooster showing that his ego is finally fitting him

The absolute chaos shown during the coffin corner, Mav using the Cobra to defend Rooster and taking a shot himself.

It's honestly such a miracle Maverick survived this shit

"He's gone, Maverick's gone" damn, he just got dad2 back, now he seemingly lost him again. So much for Rooster telling Mav he's got no one to mourn him

I'm SO GLAD Rooster came back but holy shit dude got taken out so quickly and you could see the devastation and desperation

Mav runs™

Like he sure does run

Simply to make sure his son is ok then violently push him into the snow lol

"You told me not to think" that shut his ass up so quickly lol

"So what's the plan" don't ask Mav this, just don't. He flew past 10 Gs just to prove he can

Them casually walking through enemy territory lmao, they're so bold

"This thing is so old" haha, yeah it is

Mav has a fucking answer to everything, no runway? Go through the taxi way with a building at the end

Landing gear ex machina

Need more of smart Maverick fics, he has so much random ass knowledge

"Smile and wave boys, just smile and wave"

Mav being so hesitant to make suicidal actions like he usually would because he's finally got someone in the back seat again

Why is this old ass plane fitted with like everything?

The technical know how of operating all these pedals and buttons and steering must be insane

"Do some of that pilot shit" *was not prepared for that pilot shit*

YAY THEY WON THE FIGHT

OH NO THERE'S MORE

Fucking BLEAK odds. You're in a really old plane that while outfitted with weapons and ammo has run out of said ammo, being chase by a guy with supposedly plenty of ammo, the eject handles aren't working, and you've seemingly got no backup. I'm so fucking glad Hangman disobeys orders

Landing gear ex machina

Uh oh fire

Rooster sounds so desperate when he says ok to Mav saying he won't tell him they lost an engine

BIG CELEBRATION

HONDO

In the middle of a loud ass crowd is a bad time to tell your dad2 that you at least partially forgive him which is what I'm assuming Rooster tried doing

You know, I thought Penny just up and left him so he didn't leave her first, but I'm assuming she was just getting things in order so she could go be in Mojave with him

How to know Mav needs to be in plenty of wingfics: even retired from the Navy he has his own personal plane and probably flies it more than he walks

Have gotten an addiction to seeing Rooster and Mav as a son dad duo in fics in the past day and CANNOT get over it

[kitconnor]

2025 predictions:

- paul mescal comes out as bi and gracie abrams does not like this

- jd vance either suspiciously disappears or suspiciously dies. elon takes his place

- they try to sell tumblr but it doesn’t work because no one wants to buy it for the price they ask

- american class revolution (about time)

- sabrina carpenter and marcello hernandez dating rumours

- chappell roan drops her new album with no warning

- lorde releases an album before june and it’s a cross between pure heroine and melodrama. new era of angst ushered in (released what was that april 24th and IS a mix of pure heroine and melodrama, album tba)

- drake releases another song in response to kendrick a year after his beef with him. it flops ✅

- drake then starts an only fans

- stranger things press tour ends in tears. and not because it’s ending

- colleen hoover also gets sued in the baldoni-blakely case

- prince charles cancer is terminal and it’s a matter of time before he dies

- joe biden is immediately in a hospice after he leaves office

- another assassination attempt on trump, more successful than other attempts but he doesn’t die

- doechii goes big, similar to how chappell did, despite already having a solid career ✅

- tiktok doesn’t get banned in the us but then trump changes his mind and bans it anyway. american youth left in despair

- someone tries to break luigi mangione free to avoid him going to trial. semi successful

- lana del rey is pregnant with twins

- pjo press tour also goes shit and someone in the main cast gets fired because of it

- another disney live action casting goes downhill, leaving the actress without defense from disney against online trolls

- kylie and timothee have a baby (unplanned)

- doja new pop album. goes absolutely viral and she hates it

- billie eilish hard launches with a girl (finally)

- ariana grande gets engaged to ethan slater. she then gets cancelled for it

- sweat tour returns but they only do every part of europe and no where else

- chatgpt gains awareness in a new update

- nasa finds more about the planet that sent out the radio signal and has artificial lights that indicate almost certainty of life (i forgot the planet name)

- major natural disaster in asia, killing thousands ✅

- one of these pairs - rachel zegler and tom blyth or corey mylchreest and india amarteifio - are found to be dating after the press tour speculations

- dua lipa is engaged to callum turner and has the 2020s version of ariana’s wedding. breaks the internet and becomes most liked ig post but mainly because it’s really aesthetic

- hailee steinfeld is pregnant

- shameik moore absolutely crashes out and gets fired from spiderverse.

- online campaign then calls for reed shannon to replace shameik and it works

- a book adaptation for something iconic released from around 2012-2014 is announced and actually gets to go ahead with great anticipation

-tom and zendaya are engaged. small chance (5%) they also have a baby (it's zendaya's off year for press i think) ✅

- new: benson boone comes out as something

[darlingdreadwrites]

How Toby Got Kidnapped by an Elf

pairing: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

part: 1, 2

summary: You and Toby continue your holiday festivities - more chaos ensues.

contains: toby being annoying, fluff, kissing, more christmas shit, insults used affectionately, gift-wrapping, watching a movie

warnings: no real kidnapping by an elf sorry... i forgot what happens when in home alone and im basing it off of memory. so if the sequence of events is wrong, blame my laziness

word count: 2.8k

masterlist

The cookies had been an absolute disaster – most of them were burnt, and only three and a half were still edible. The fact some of them were burnt to a crisp didn’t mean anything to Toby. He ate them up, licking his fingers and rubbing his stomach in a dramatic display. You stand on a rickety chair, balancing on your toes as you attempt hooking the last string of Christmas lights over the curtain rod. The living room was looking a little better now that you had two hands on deck. But that was only when Toby decided to actually help you and not mess around.

Toby stands below you, holding the tangled mess of wires like it holds some type of sentience. He had genuinely started believing that he cursed every Christmas activity he touched. And, while the evidence was stacked against him, you reassured him that there were still more activities to go. And you already knew the unpredictable storm that is Toby would wreak havoc wherever he could naturally. Despite this, neither of you were in any bad mood after the mishaps.

“Wh-why is it… so kn-knotted?” he mutters, his face scrunched in confusion. His hands jerk suddenly with a sharp twitch, causing the lights to jolt. He scowls at them.

“Because I bought the cheapest box at Goodwill,” you grunt, stretching just a liiittle further to hook the final loop.

“Ch-cheapskate,” he mumbles under his breath, his lips twitching at the corners. “You get wuh-what you pay for.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You finally manage to hook the light strand in place. You hop down, wiping your hands with a satisfied grin. “There. Done.”

“Cool. My turn.”

You turn just in time to see Toby drape the remaining strings of lights over his shoulders like a feather boa. It all seems normal at first, and you even think he was going to make some sort of joke. Suddenly, he steps somewhere that turns out to be very unfortunate for him.

The lights twist around his arms and his left foot somehow gets involved. Then, his hoodie pocket snags one of the cords, and he’s mid-spin, his legs tangling in some sort of interpretive dance. You don’t think the creators of Final Destination could have predicted a weirder way for him to end up like this.

“Help!” he yells, doing a very dramatic half-spin, arms flailing as much as he can move them. The lights flash on and off like an emergency siren. “I’m b-b-being… kidnapped-by an elf!”

“You did that to yourself, man.” You shrug, watching with zero urgency. His struggle is kinda mesmerizing, if you really think about it. “Honestly, it’s a fitting end for you.”

He flops face-first onto the floor, arms outstretched like he’s in a crime scene outline. The lights flicker around him in little blips of red, blue, and green. From his position on the ground, he cranes his neck to look up at you.

“Heh-help me. I’m d-dying.” He sounds like he’s completely serious. Like this is his last will and testament.

You cross your arms as you look down at him with all the pity of a jaded babysitter. “Good. This is what you get for covering me in flour.”

“I r-regret nothing,” he mutters, voice muffled by the floorboards. His body twitches – sharp and fast, his head jerking up once before flopping back down. The lights flash violently in sync with his movements. He groans. “Okay. Muh-might regret… one thing.”

You crouch next to him, eyeing the lights that now resembled some kind of jolly straitjacket. He tilts his head to glare at you again.

“Are you g-gonna help, or are you-you just gonna watch me suf-suffer?”

“Little bit of both, I think.” You smirk as you tug one of the wires off of his arm. It’s like trying to untangle a slinky from itself – impossible.

“’M gonna rem-remember this,” he mumbles as you pull the wire from around his hoodie. “Y-you’re… o-on my list now.”

“Oh yeah? What list is that?” you ask, twisting the wire free from his pockets. The process is made more challenging by his tics.

His eyes light up brighter than the Christmas lights wrapped around him as he smiles impishly. “My rev-revenge list.”

“Cool. I’m putting you on my ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ list,” you reply, tossing the last of the lights onto the couch.

“You… wouldn’t.” He gasps.

“Alright, fine,” you sigh, tugging the final cord off his ankle. “Get up, Tobes. We’ve still got gifts to wrap.”

“Wr-wrap gifts?” he echoes, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion. “Why wuh-would I wrap-wrap something I’m… j-just gonna rip apart later?”

And, with that, you realize you’re in for another battle.

The living room was turned into a war zone – all in the name of wrapping gifts, no less. Scraps of crumpled wrapping paper are everywhere. Some were under the couch, tangled in a blanket reserved for the living room, and somehow stuck to the… ceiling fan? A roll of tape has seemingly gone rogue, half-unspooled and wrapped around Toby’s wrist. He called it his “sticky bracelet of shame.” The scissors only you seemed to find any use for were abandoned in the middle of the floor since he decided that tearing the wrapping paper himself would look prettier. You don’t know what that kind of logic was about.

You’re perched cross-legged in the carpet, folding the edges of a box with precision – the very image of patience. Toby is not.

He’s hunched over something that might have once been a square box and now looks like it survived a tornado. The “wrapping” job consisted of tearing different wrapping papers until the small box turned into a ball. To secure it – and this was true genius – he’s mummified the thing in so much tape it could withstand a nuclear blast. You weren’t even sure he even put the gift inside because, glancing just a little way behind him, you could see the random can of beans he was going to gift to Brian. Not in the box, you note. Toby sits back, arms crossed over his chest like he’s just conquered the world.

“Done,” he says with finality, a triumphant grin on his face. His fingers twitch once and his head jerks to the right with a sharp tic. Then he turns to you with a look of expectation. “P-p-pretty good, huh?”

You stare at what can only be described as an abomination. You tilt your head slowly, the way one would observe something colossal crashing down in slo-mo.

“What… is that?” you ask, barely able to keep your voice steady.

Toby points at it like he’s revealing a masterpiece in a museum exhibit. “I-inno…inn-ovation,” he declares, punctuating it with a dramatic, self-satisfied sniff.

You snort so loud you almost choke. Your head drops, shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter, before you can manage to face him with a semi-straight face.

“It looks like you fought it and lost.”

Toby gasps and snatches the bundle off the ground, cradling it to his chest like it’s his firstborn child.

“It’s called style,” he huffs. His voice pitches higher, his stutter more pronounced as he speeds through his words. “S-s-sssorry you duh-don’t have t-taste.”

That only makes you laugh harder, nearly falling forward into a pile of discarded paper. He glares at you but can’t seem to hold it for long. His face cracks into a wide, toothy grin.

“Jealousy. Tha-that’s what this-this is.” He points at you with both hands like he’s figured you out. “You only wuh-wish you could be this g-good.”

“Yeah, I’m so jealous of whatever nightmare you created. Teach me your ways, Toby.”

Toby gasps in mock delight.

“S-so y-you admit it!” He leans toward you with wild eyes. “Bow. Bow to… mme, lowly cr-crafter.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bow.”

“Never.”

“Never?”

He launches himself at you, dragging you into a mess of paper, tape, and chaos. Yelping, you try to wriggle free, but Toby has the upper hand. He pins you with one arm, his hands sticky from tape usage. He plants a dramatic, loud kiss on your cheek, punctuating it with a “Mwah!”

“Victory,” he says breathlessly, forehead pressing against yours – grinning like a maniac. His hands twitch, one eye squinting with a tic, but he doesn’t pull back.

“Okay, Picasso, why don’t we finish our job?”

“Sure. Since-since you’re so des…perate for my bril-brilliance.” Then, before you can respond, he boops your nose with a tape-covered finger. “B-boop.”

The comforting glow of the boxy TV bathes the room in soft blue light, flickering like the flames of a fireplace. You are curled up on the couch next to Toby, a blanket draped over your legs. Toby was sat next to you, arms and legs sprawled. You were taking advantage of his moment to get some good cuddles out of this movie thing.

“Home Alone, huh?” he mutters, scratching at his arm with the edge of his sleeve. His head jerks to the left with a quick tic, and he follows it with a low whistle. “Is-is this uuuuh-bout that psycho kid?”

“Not psycho, just resourceful,” you reply, stuffing a handful of popcorn into your mouth.

Toby catches a stray one that lands on the blanket. The fingers of his other hand drum against the backrest like he had too much energy to sit still.

“Th-they just fffforgot him?” Toby says suddenly, pointing at the screen as Kevin’s family race through the airport. “Are you… s-serious?"

“Yep.”

“If I got left-left home, I’d just leave. Pfft, problem solved.”

You shoot him a look. “Yeah, you’d last five seconds out there.”

“Ex-excuse me,” Toby looks at you, one hand pressed to his chest. “I could ssssurvive anyone that messes with me. Walk up, act craz-crazy – boom – they’d bolt.”

As the movie plays on, the commentary doesn’t stop. He flinches with every slapstick moment, whistling when Kevin outsmarts the burglars.

He gestures urgently at the screen, where Kevin is laying out micro-machines like a battlefield. “Look at that! Too much work. Just throw a f-frickin’ hatchet at ‘em and call it a day.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Big words for someone who got stuck in packing tape for twenty minutes and managed to get tied up in Christmas lights by yourself.”

“That wuh-was a strategy failure.” He pokes at your cheek. “Not a re-ffflection of my abilities.”

“You lost to tape. And lights… And a fridge.”

“And… here I am. A survivor.” He grins and leans over, biting at the air near your shoulder like a teasing dog. “Bet yuh-you wouldn’t last.”

At one point, Toby jumps so suddenly at a scene that the blanket you’re sharing gets yanked halfway across the couch.

“Can you not?” you ask, tugging it back.

“I-it’s not my f-fault! That kid-kid is crazy!” He twitches once before sprawling out again. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and, for a moment, everything was peaceful. Then, a trap on screen sent one of the burglars flying, and Toby wheezes, nearly choking. “BAHAHA—look at him! Look at him flop like a—” His cackling turns into coughing, and you hand him a water bottle with a flat stare.

“Let’s add popcorn to that list of things that can defeat you.”

“Sh-shut up.” He wipes his face with his sleeve, still grinning like an idiot.

By the time Kevin’s final showdown with the Wet Bandits begins, Toby is practically vibrating with energy. His feet tap against the floor, and his hands twitch in anticipation for every trap.

“This is g-g-genius.” His voice hitches with a tic as he watches Kevin rig a paint can on a string. “H-he’s gonna de…stroy them. R-respect.”

When the iconic moment happens, Toby lets out a victorious laugh, grabbing your arm in excitement.

“D-did ya see th-that? That’s how-how you do it! Wuh-we’re trying th-this next year!”

You shoot him a look. “If you so much as think about rigging paint cans in this house, I will-“

“B-but you sssaid-“

“Toby, no.”

“Toby, y-yes,” he replies, mimicking your tone before collapsing into laughter. You can’t help but laugh too, shaking your head slightly.

Toby’s excitement had worn off as the movie was entering what he thought was sappy territory. Now, he was going over the traps and how much he loved the Wet Bandits.

“Why didn’t they just-just, like, l-leave? Walk away. C-cut their losses.”

“Because they’re dumb, Tobes.” You pull the blanket up to your chin. “That’s the whole point.”

“Stup-stupidest criminals of aaall time,” he mutters, folding his arms in feigned seriousness. “I c-c-could run circles around… them.”

“You couldn’t even run circles around packing tape.”

“I wuh-will tape your mouth shut.” He smiles innocently despite his words.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The credits begin to roll. Gentle, tinkling music plays softly in the background, like it was trying to lull anyone withing a ten-mile radius to sleep. The glow of the TV dims, and you sit still, eyes half-lidded. You watch as the names scroll by like they might spell out some hidden message. Toby was quiet next to you. That wasn’t like him.

Normally, he’d still be talking, cracking jokes about how he could’ve done crazier shit than Kevin. You’d be hearing some pretty heinous things because that was normal for him. And it’s not like he was tired – he would never shut up then, either. His head twitches to the side, fingers playing with a loose string on his hoodie.

“You good?” you ask casually at first.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice low and soft. His lips press into a line, and he flicks his eyes back toward the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The ornaments sway gently.

“It’s… it’s-uh, nice, I guess.” He shrugs one shoulder.

He’s totally downplaying it, you think.

You shift on the couch so that you could look at him better. “The tree?”

He doesn’t respond – he just picks at a seam on his sleeve, and another involuntarily whistle comes from him. He opens his mouth like he was about to say something, then closes it again.

“Hey,” you say softly and nudge his arm. He doesn’t flinch, but he tilts his head just a bit toward you. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just…” Toby exhales deeply through his nose. He rubs his hands together momentarily – slowly, deliberately. His next words came quickly, like if he said them slowly, he’d choke on them. “I ne-never really did any of this. Th-the tree, movies, all this stuff.”

He glances up at you and looks away just as fast. It was like he accidentally looked at something that was too bright to comprehend. “Guess it-it-it’s… nice.”

Your chest aches a little and your brows furrow. Not in a sad way, but in that way where you realize someone’s been missing out on something they didn’t know they needed.

“Well, you’re stuck with it now.” You grin, leaning into his side. “We’re doing this every year. Tree, movies, the whole thing. Even the chaos.”

Toby snorts and tilts his head to rest it lightly on yours. “Cuh-could do with-without the, uh, the wrapping part.”

“It is not my fault you wrapped that present like it was struggling to go down.”

He lifts his head and nudges yours back with his own. “It was… art, actually.”

“It was garbage,” you say through a laugh. He leans back, eyes drooping as he looks at the Christmas tree one more time.

“Merry Christmas, loser.” His voice is barely above a whisper. He turns his head back to stare at you, and you smile at him.

His eyes shift to yours, lingering this time. No darting away. No quick glances like before, or any jokes to interrupt the silence. Just… stillness. You can see it in the way his breathing is slowing down, the way he glances at your lips. He slants his head, slowly closing the space between you. He wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it until he was close enough to feel your breath on his skin. You’ve kissed before, but this felt different.

He presses his lips to yours gently. It wasn’t dramatic, rushed, or messy. Just a warm, soft kiss like those in the movies. His lips stay there for a moment, just enough for you to sink into it. You pull back just a little to get some air before diving back in with your head at a different angle. You can feel the warmth of Toby’s palm as he lifts his hand to cup your cheek, and –

“What the fuck happened in here?!”

The two of you jolt apart as if struck by lightning, your heart pounding wildly as you shoot a wide-eyed look at Toby. Toby’s eyes dart to the kitchen, then back to you. Somehow, he finds a way to smile in this situation.

“…R-run?” he suggests, already standing up.

“Run!” you agree, pushing yourself off the couch as fast as you can.

“THERE’S FLOUR IN THE CEILING FAN?!” Tim’s voice echoes from the kitchen, filled with fury.

[lindsey-laufeyson]

Distractions- Chapter 13

Distractions Masterlist

Pairing: Reader x FWB!Tom Hiddleston

Series Warnings: SMUT, fluff, angst, friends with benefits

From the moment Tom left for Hawaii, you were battling yourself. You missed him terribly, and you wanted to take every chance you could to text or call him, but you didn’t want to bother him or appear clingy. He was working for Steven Spielberg in a tropical paradise alongside a long-legged, black-haired beauty. He would be much too distracted to think about you.

…

Tom knew he was going to miss you. After all, the two of you had become incredibly close over a relatively short amount of time. But he never could have predicted just how much he would miss you. Even halfway around the world, in one of the most beautiful places on earth, he couldn’t get you out of his head. It was incredibly frustrating. Especially when there were only small windows in the day when you both could talk, given the eleven hour time difference and your grueling schedules. Nevertheless, he took whatever he could get, whether it was a text here and there, or the occasional video call. 

“Hello, darling,” he greeted you cheerfully through panting breaths. He had just finished his morning run when his phone alerted him of a video call from you.

“Wow,” you said, looking taken aback. “It appears that in the battle between your hair and Hawaii, Hawaii has won!”

He chuckled. Ever since he stepped foot in the humid Hawaii air, his naturally curly hair had taken on a mind of its own, practically doubling in volume. He knew you would immediately notice and take the mickey out of him. “Yeah, well, humidity has never really been my friend.”

“I actually think your curls are rather adorable! Especially now they’re absolutely unruly. That being said, I’m glad I’m not the one doing your hair for this film. Whoever it is has their work cut out for them.”

“Oh I often hear her cursing under her breath when she has to keep putting the same curl back in place over and over again. Reminds me of you actually.”

“She reminds you of me?”

“No, just the cursing. I have yet to meet anyone quite like you. So how was your day?”

“Exhausting,” you huffed as you flopped backwards onto your sofa. “I’m not sure if I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to work on a project this big, or if this one in particular is just that challenging.”

Tom furrowed his brow in concern. “What’s going on?”

You let out a heavy sigh. “I just feel like I have to do everything myself if I want it done right. These children in my department are more concerned about their fucking instagram accounts than their jobs.”

“Can you have them replaced?”

“And train in a whole new batch all over again? Not worth it. I just have to power through.”

“Y/n, that’s not healthy.”

“Neither is improper sun cream application, and yet here you are with your chest as red as the glass of merlot I’m about to have, so you can save the lecture, Tommy boy,” you teased.

“I hardly think you can compare copious amounts of stress on a daily basis to a little sunburn.”

“Well, they can both lead to cancer.”

He laughed. “Oh how I miss your incomparable congeniality.”

 “I’m sorry,” you said, rubbing your face tiredly. “It’s just been a long day.”

“No need to be sorry. I just wish I could help. Get some rest, okay? I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

“Have a good day,” you told him, with as much of a smile as you could muster.

“Goodnight, darling.” And with a hint of regret, he hung up.

…

Seeing Tom all sweaty and out of breath, with his hair wilder than you’d ever seen it turned you on more than it probably should have. But it had been over two weeks since you’d seen him, meaning it had been over two weeks since you’d gotten laid, and the stress from work had you wound tighter than a ten day clock. 

Fuck this time difference. If he hadn’t had to go to work you would have told him to go somewhere private so he could watch you touch yourself, and inevitably start touching himself as well. 

Your eyes fell closed as you reached into your pants and ran your middle finger through your already slick folds. As you began to rub circles into your clit, you imagined Tom watching you on the video call with hungry eyes. 

That’s it, baby. Stroke that beautiful pussy for me, he’d say. 

You pictured him pulling his hard cock out of his shorts and slowly pumping it up and down as he continued watching you pleasure yourself. You’d put on a show for him, keeping your eyes on him as you made the most erotic noises you knew he loved. 

What I wouldn’t give to be inside you right now, he’d groan while his hand picked up speed. To be the one ushering those angelic sounds from those delicious lips of yours.

You rubbed your clit faster and harder while you thought of him using his thumb to spread his precum around the head of his dick, letting out a filthy groan as he did so. Then he’d pump his shaft even faster, breathing out, Be a good girl and cum for me, sweetheart. I wanna watch you cum.

Your orgasm hit you as you pictured Tom moaning your name while he came, the last of his cum spilling over his knuckles. 

You finished with a heavy sigh. Some of your tension had been relieved, but you weren’t nearly as satisfied as when you were with Tom. Even if you had used your favorite toy, it was nothing in comparison to how he made you feel. It was extremely irritating. Six more weeks, you reminded yourself. It didn’t help. It had only been 2 weeks and you were already going mad without him. With a huff, you got up off the sofa and resided to have a cup of microwavable noodles and a glass of wine before heading to bed early.

…

The next morning you wanted nothing more than to call in sick, just to get a break from work. Unfortunately, you weren’t one to call in unless you were actually physically unable to get to work. So you rolled over and checked your phone before you got up, and saw you had a text from Tom.

To the bewilderment of your team, you were in an uncommonly good mood for the rest of the day.

…

The next month was even more stressful for you than before. You had to train a temporary Head of Hair and Makeup to cover for you while you were gone, on top of compensating for the rest of your team’s lack of experience. You were also stressing about what to pack for your trip, worrying about all of your outfits as if you were going on a week-long first date. And for what? Tom had seen you in all states of dress and undress more or less, and being your best friend, you knew he wouldn’t judge you. But you hadn’t seen each other in person in six weeks, and in that time he’d seen a lot of Evelyn Dawson, one of the most beautiful female actors in the biz right now as well as his co-star. You had no idea if they’d slept together at this point and you didn’t want to know. Whether they had or hadn’t, either way you couldn’t help but feel like you couldn’t compete with such a gorgeous and talented woman. Most of all though, you just hated that you cared in the first place.

Despite all of your hesitations and hang ups, you managed to make it through the month feeling just as confident about the contents for your luggage as you did about your substitute: still apprehensive, but sufficient enough to get on the plane. 

Tom had gotten you first class tickets– because of course he did– and while you originally protested it, once you actually boarded the plane you were thankful you didn’t win that particular argument. It was an eleven and a half hour flight from Heathrow to LAX, and a six hour flight from LAX to Honolulu, so you were quite relieved when you saw how comfortable and spacious the first class seats were. It was like a private little suite. The seat reclined all the way back into a bed, complete with a pillow, duvet, and even your own loungewear; your tv came with endless films and series as well as noise canceling headphones; and there was even a complimentary bag of luxury skincare products. It was going to be difficult going back to flying economy after this. 

Once the plane was in the air and the captain turned off the seatbelt light, a flight attendant came by and offered you a mimosa.

“That would be lovely, actually. How much is it?” you asked, reaching for your wallet.

“All drinks and meals are complimentary, Miss,” she told you with a smile as she handed you the crystal champagne flute. 

You raised your eyebrows in surprise as you took the glass from her. “Thank you so much.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I’m okay for now, thank you.” As she walked away you leaned back in your seat and took a sip of your drink. This was truly the stuff of movies, and you certainly weren’t complaining.

…

By the time you landed in LA, the local time was 1:30pm, meaning it was 9:30pm in London, and 10:30am in Hawaii. The jet lag was going to be horrendous. Luckily you had managed to get a little bit of sleep on your first flight, because you were going to attempt to stay awake for the second so you would sleep through the night when you got to Hawaii and hopefully better adjust to the time difference. 

When you got to the first class lounge, you texted Tom to let him know you arrived in LA safely, knowing he would worry if you didn't.

During your second flight you nodded off a couple of times, but you managed to stay awake for most of it, spending the last hour doing your makeup and changing into a little sundress. You were tired as shit, but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to look good for your reunion with Tom. 

As soon as you landed, you texted him, and by the time you picked up your luggage, you received a reply on your way to the exit.

As if on cue, you looked up and saw a man in a suit, holding up a sign that simply said ‘Sweets.’ You chuckled to yourself and shook your head as you approached him. 

“You’re either selling candy, or you’re here for me,” you joked.

The man chuckled. “Based on the picture I was given, I believe I’m here for you, Miss. Though I have had several kids ask me if I had any lollipops.” He winked at you. 

You laughed. “I can’t imagine why.”

The man introduced himself as Koa and explained that he was hired as Tom’s driver while he was in Hawaii and that he prides himself on his discretion. Again he winked at you before leading you to the car.

It was dark when you arrived on Oahu so there wasn’t much you could see on the car ride to Tom’s, but Koa filled the time telling you about all the things you ought to do while you were there. You tried your best to pay attention, but you were too excited, and surprisingly a bit nervous, to see Tom. Finally, Koa turned off the main road and up a long path to a secluded house on a hill. After he retrieved your luggage from the boot of the car, he bid you “Aloha,” and left. 

Immediately, you spun around sped giddily up the walkway to the front door. You barely knocked once before the door swung open.

Taglist: @chronicallybubbly, @the-princess-of-loki, @princess-ofthe-pages, @darcylikesloki, @kikster606, @foxherder, @simone818283, @newtomofgods, @christinebloodwrittings