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jigglyjeon · 2 days ago

Text

all the things she said -> jjk (three)

summary: no matter how much you want to completely disappear, you still have a bachelor’s to complete and life to uphold— you try to reach out to your friends as am attempt to piece the relationships you have with them back together, taehyung is the only one that’s willingly to meet with you.

rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact

genre: roommate au, angst, fluff, eventual smut

word count: 4.7k +

warnings/tags: taehyung is a FLURT, titty playyy, tickle attackkk, like this is just a lot of touching and jk literally blue balling himself bye, literally oh my god just kiss already!!!! things are getting hot in here aurrr

notes: i'd like to know if you guys like seeing the physical texts or if you prefer me to keep it strictly writing? does it make things confusing? would love to know cause lowkey i'm just doing it to fuck around with using smau apps LOL. thanks for all the love so far bbys <3

soundtrack: your best american girl - mitski

⋆ ࣪. masterlist ˖ ࣪⭑

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Were you that much of a drag last week?

You think you made things worse by going to that dinner, because the group chat you had with Jia and Hanna has been drier than it ever had, typically being the source of reason behind why your phone blew up with messages. But your notifications have decreased, most of your messages coming from Jungkook or your mother, but even today you don’t get the usual morning text that he usually sends you.

With your cheek pressed against the desk, you drown out the voice of your lecturer, he talked too slow for your attention span anyway and scrolled on your phone waiting for someone to reply to you. You drag your empty home screen down, waiting for something— anything.

You puff in disappointment, lock your phone and roll your head into the crook of your shoulder. A few minutes go by before your phone buzzes to life. Your head snaps up, bringing the screen to your face with hopeful eyes. Taehyung?

Unusual, but you weren’t going to be picky. You and Taehyung weren’t that close; you’ve interacted with him a lot less than you have Jimin. You only knew them through Jungkook; all his friends were older than you by a few years and there would have been no reason for you to befriend if not for him. Still, when you open up the chat you wince; you forgot that your first text comes off completely desperate for someone to validate you.

You were beginning to wonder why your actions were so painful to everyone, especially when it was your reputation that was being squandered with, not theirs. Truthfully you thought you were going to be showered with support from them, you still refused to be mad at them. You just wanted them back in your life. Maybe you were desperate.

Was it so bad to want a friend to rely upon?

You spend the rest of the lecture chewing on the back of your pen, twisting the rings around your fingers and braiding small strands of your hair. You’re one of the last people to leave the lecture hall because you hate the traffic that ensues the moment the room is dismissed; you absolutely hate pushing past people, knocking shoulders with someone who’s subconsciously fighting to get out the door before you do. You never understood why people did it, but all you knew was that it was something you hated. Patience came easy to you, but it was a foreign concept in the eyes of most, you’d noticed.

You don’t expect Taehyung to be waiting in the courtyard, cigarette between his lips as he sits on one of the benches. He nods and grins politely when someone gives him a dirty look and mutters something under their breath. He salutes, “Have a fantastic day, darling.” And she carries on by him with the same judgemental looks on her face.

He finds you soon after, coming toward him with your arms folded shyly against your chest. He raises his brows in greeting, tossing the cigarette to the concrete and putting it out with his shoe. “Hey doll, how you holdin’ up?”

You lift your arms, returning them in their crossed position. Taehyung motions you over with an outstretched arm, his other sitting cooly in the pocket of his jacket as you turn into the side hug he offers. “I feel like I’m being punished, probably.” You shrug, “Jungkook told me last night that he has feelings for me, and this morning he was gone before I even woke up, which is weird because he doesn’t start work until nine-thirty in the morning and I woke up at seven for my morning lecture.”

Taehyung lets out a low whistle, he turns, walking slow alongside your small steps. “Must’ve been some confession.”

“It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant moment.”

“How did it make you feel? Y’know, like…what did he say?”

You suck in a breath when you think back to that moment. How with each word spoken, hidden feelings and truths revealing themselves, the volume climbed, and the tone of the moment had intensified. You’ve fought with Jungkook more in the past week and a half than you have in almost two years of knowing him.

“He just–“ Your hand slithers to the back of your neck, you don’t know where to put them; your cold fingers rubbing against the warmth of your skin, sending a chill down your spine. “We were sort of arguing, and he sort just… I have feelings for you Y/N!”

Taehyung pinches the bridge of his nose, “That man has absolutely no game when it comes to you.” He mutters to himself before he looks back up at you. “I’m sure he’s just avoiding you because he’s embarrassed, too.”

You hum, “Perhaps.”

He shuffles in front of you to stop you in your tracks. “You look like you need coffee.” He says after a best of silence, “We can sit, and you can vent, and we can figure it all out together.” He removes a hand from his pocket to tap your arm, letting it swing back by his side. “Wanna?”

You look up at Taehyung curiously, searching his features that are hard, yet the gentle smile he offers you softens them subtly. There are parts of him that remind you an awful lot of Jungkook when you first met him. Jungkook was a little more sensitive, had a shorter fuse for lack of better words; it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, to feel so much— it was one of the things about him that you appreciated.

Here’s what you knew about Taehyung: He and Jungkook worked out together, like a lot. You know so not only because you’ve watched his build change from slim and fit to lean and bulky. Not only that, but Jungkook would return from the gym boasting about how much more weight he bench-pressed than Taehyung that day. Competitive— Taehyung was competitive, and you think that’s why he and Jungkook had so much fun together; because Taehyung didn’t give up and he’d put up a good fight. Taehyung was a silent observer. He spent a lot of time watching interactions between other people, his group of friends included, rather than involving himself in the interaction. He dissected body language, could read others like a book. That was slightly intimidating.

He did it now; sitting across from you, as he watched you sip on the iced coffee that he’d offered to pay for. Another thing about Taehyung was actually quite a gentleman, you never thought anything of it though. He pulls out your chair whenever you’re around to let you sit down before him, he had done so just moments prior when he handed you your drink and ushered you toward a nearby table. You’ve seen the way he offers up his spot in line for the elderly, children or women. You’d never seen anything quite like it, in all honesty. He’s nonchalant about it, too. Like it was normal. You’re starting to think that he’s a time traveller. Your eyes widen at the prospect.

“What?” He kinks a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You flash him a cheesy grin, “I sometimes just think you’re not even real.”

“…What?”

It’s not kind to compare people, is the thought you have following the one you have the moment he glares at you like you’re strange— Jungkook would have indulged you in a moment like this. He would’ve barred that charming half grin of his, lean in closer like you’re about to tell him the most interesting secret. He would’ve laughed with you, not at you.

You set down your coffee, releasing a defeated puff through your lips. “I want you to be straight with me, Tae.” You cut right to the chase. “Was what I did really that bad?”

“The way I see it, it’s been the ultimate test of friendship and loyalty.” He shrugs like it wasn’t the most hard-hitting thing he’s said to you all day. “Weeds out the fake ones.”

“I honestly think you’re the victim in all of this, it was your body and your picture after all.”

You look down, slowly nodding as you take in the weight of his words. A part of you already knew he was right, but the people-pleasing part of you wanted to see things from another point of view. “I don’t know, I think I still wish I made different decisions.”

“I get it, shits hard. Feelings suck; people suck— life’s unfair.” His fingers tap against the table, pulling his back off the chair. You whine, your face falling into your hands. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

The moment he stops the car; he’s already getting out and rushing over to the passenger’s side before you can even reach for the door handle. You snort, slump back into the seat, when he opens the door, he offers a boxy grin that makes you roll your eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of opening a car door, you know?”

“Sure you are, doll. But look at it this way; why do anything if someone else can do it for you?”

With that you climb out of the car, inhaling deeply when the air hits your face again, there was nothing quite like it; when you’re starting to feel a little too warm, and the freshness of the air is crispy and clean against your hot cheeks. It makes you smile, and you take slow steps toward the front door to the complex, Taehyung stops just below the few steps, holding onto the railing.

“I know we don’t know eachother that well, but” He moves up the steps, inching closer, stopping just below where you stood. “–I’m here if you ever need me.”

His scent was soft; aldehydic and comforting in a way a storm was on a Sunday night, curling up in bed with your window cracked open just slightly. You take a step back, but he fills the space you leave the moment you move. You blink up at him as his eyes flicker over your features.

A car door slamming shut makes you jump, pulling you both from the moment. Strange.

Taehyung turns with a furrowed brow, but it relaxes the moment he sees who comes toward them, satchel slung over his shoulder, the sleeves of his dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows. He shakes his hair with his hand, stops in his tracks when looks up at the two people blocking his way inside.

He blinks, first at Taehyung and then at you. He deflates, looking like a kicked puppy when you look down the moment his eyes meet yours. “What are you doing here?” Is the first thought that slips out.

“Y/N needed a friend.” He shrugs cooly, moving past Jungkook with a pat to the shoulder. He flinches at the contact, a hand coming up to rub at his shoulder.

“That hurt…” He mumbles. Jungkook back at his friend with a frustrated expression.

“Catch ya.”

Taehyung is already walking over to the driver’s side, halfway into his car when Jungkook replies, “Yeah, see you…” He shakes his head, squeezing his shoulder. “Weird.” He mumbles.

You’re leaning against the railing with a red tinge on your cheeks. You only look up at him when he brushes your arm, opening the door for you to walk through. He had no choice but to look at you when you don’t move from your place. He regrets it the moment he sees you gleaming up at him.

“It’s getting cold,” He breathes out. “Let’s get inside.”

With that you obey, beelining for the stairs instead of the elevator. Jungkook sighs and clambers after you.

He turns to face his steps when he catches himself watching the way your hair swayed effortlessly behind you, the way your hips followed in unison. When he notices that your dress is quite mini and how smooth your legs look, and–

Jungkook’s had a long day.

It starts when he rushes out of his bed, throwing on clothes and heading out the door ten minutes before seven in the morning to pound on Jimin’s door.

Jimin never answered his call last night, or his texts. He left a hefty number of messages only for them to go unread. He already knew his night would be a sleepless one, but Jimin’s message only weighed on him even more. He rushed out the door that morning, his socks mismatched, his hair unruly and he throws a vest over a t-shirt, and he just looks awful.

Of course he looks lively, refreshed and put together at seven in the morning. Jimin grimaces at the poor sight of his friend, ushering him inside claiming it’d be a social nightmare if his cute neighbour were to see him at his door looking like that.

“You weren’t answering me, why?” He cuts right to the chase, propping himself down at the stool by the kitchen island. “You can’t just say you know who it was and then just… vanish?”

“I believe they call that ghosting, Jungkookie.” He doesn’t appreciate the joke; he blinks at him boredly. Jimin sighs and rolls his eyes. “Okay, so no light humour before ten in the morning–“

“Hyung. This isn’t just some lighthearted thing?” His eyes follow his older friend as he scurries through the kitchen, grabbing a tea towel and wiping down the spot in front of Jungkook. He tosses the towel aside with a huff.

“You’re right, it’s not. It’s all fucked up and ironic and honestly, I enjoy holding such a valuable piece of information.” He shrugs.

“Are you about to blackmail me?”

“No, no–“ He shakes his head and hands with brief upside-down smile. “I just think it’ll cause more harm than good for you to know right now.”

“Don’t tell me we know this person?” Jungkook leans forward against the tabletop, a stern look on his face. “How do you even know who did it in the first place?”

Jimin looks away, anywhere else really, besides Jungkook. He scratches the back of his neck as he peers at the ceiling fan.

Jungkook sighs, rubbing harshly at his tired eyes. “I told Y/N how I felt last night, after we got home.”

“Wait,” He’s moving again, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the sink, the clink against the marble an unpleasant sound. “You mean to tell me that you dropped your feelings on her, after she committed social suicide by showing up when it was way too soon for her to face her friends?” Jimin raises his brow.

“Hyung.” He runs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Shit, I– yeah, I did.”

“You haven’t changed one bit, Jungkookie.” He laughs dryly. “How did she take it?”

“She sort of dodged it all, to be honest. I still don’t know how she feels, just said she doesn’t know.”

“Yeah dummy, how can she figure how she feels about you when everyone she loves thinks she’s a desperate slut?”

“Can you watch your mouth, Jimin?” He scowls at the blond, who just clicks his tongue in return. He turns his back to make the both of them coffee.

He returns in front of him with a black coffee, the way Jungkook liked it, sipping on his own. “Do you want my advice, or what?”

“Please.” Jungkook snorts, bringing the steaming liquid past his lips.

“Just keep showing her you love her, stop hooking up with that Yuri chick and show her you mean what you said. I promise you won’t die if you don’t have sex.”

He’s right, and he knows that already. How can he expect you to love him when he’s running around with other girls, one you know from college no less. “I guess you’re right.”

Jimin nods, petting the top of his head “Let’s do better, Kook-ah.”

He clicks his tongue, slapping at Jimin’s wrist. “Alright, alright. Cut that shit out, though.”

The breath you let out is heavy with content the moment you walk through the door, toeing off your shoes beside the mat. You shuffle your way into the kitchen, humming to yourself softly as you scan the place for food. You hadn’t been to the store since Jungkook had gotten sick so there wasn’t much left.

Jungkook’s still near the door after he closes it behind him. He watched the way you jut out your bottom lip, murmuring curses under your breath that aren’t directed at him.

“Hey,” He calls out to you. You straighten, look over at him with your eyes all big and hopeful. “Sorry about last night, I didn’t mean to make it about me.”

You offer him a curt smile. “It’s okay,” your voice comes out as a whisper, not completely trusting what was going to come out the moment you realise he’s speaking to you. Not avoiding you

like you thought he was.

“I feel like I haven’t been a very good friend to you lately.” He throws the strap of his bag over her head and plops it onto the couch, himself following shortly after. You lift a hand, shaking your head.

“I just want to go back to the way life was before this all happened.”

Jungkook bites his lip and nods, his boba eyes don’t hide that your words feel personal, and that sting when he thinks about the fact that you want to forget about everything. Do you mean you want to forget his confession, too? Was it selfish that he didn’t want you to forget that part?

“Wanna get takeout and watch Sleepy Hollow?” You beam at him, as if you didn’t just chew up his chances and spit them back out. But it wasn’t like Jungkook to give up. So, he doesn’t.

“Can we get pizza?” He counters with a cheesy grin.

And it feels nice, snuggled up beside him beneath a warm blanket and a belly full of cheesy carbs. It does however make you sleepy. Jungkook doesn’t want to ask you to move so he can grab another slice, and besides, when he looks down at you and you yawn softly, he forgets all about the pizza. He drapes his arm over you, pulls you closer, and you drop your head into his lap, turning to face the screen in hopes he would think you’re watching.

His hands do that thing that drives you crazy. They soothe up and down your arm, touch feather light yet magnetic, leaving a tingle on your skin beneath his fingertips. You feel him, as his fingers graze over the goosebumps, when he reaches your wrist, he’s sly in the way he transfers his hand onto your hip instead and squeezes tenderly. You shift, peaking up at him but he’s looking straight ahead, biting on his thumb like he’s not paying attention to you, but he is. You move onto your back, and he slides his hand beneath your shirt and stops on your tummy. You let out the smallest whimper, and the deep chuckle he lets out vibrates through you, as well.

“What is it, dove?” His eyes are heavy, dark when they peer down at you. “You wanna play?”

You moan at his words, hips bucking up just the slightest, but it’s more than enough to answer his question. His hand continues up your torso, his other pushing back your hair as he admires your pretty face. He tugs your bralette up, revealing your breasts not to his eyes but for his hands to touch, his thumb swiping over your already hardened nipples. “Jungkook…” You whine.

“Yeah, baby?” He keens when you push your cheek against his hardening cock, hidden beneath his sweats. He hisses, licking his lips as he watches your features contort in pleasure. “Wanna get you nice and wet...” He drags your shirt over your chest to reveal them, cursing under his breath when you arch your back when the air hits you. Your chest feels tight, your nipples are stiff, and he joins his other hand to squeezes and touch on you, adding to the sensation.

He looks so deeply at your tits, his lips parting. “So pretty. You my pretty girl?” He drags out, dipping his head forward, the tip of his tongue flicking at one of the stiffened peaks to garner a reaction from you. He gets it, your hand comes up to the back of his neck, carding through his hair and he hums at the feeling. He wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks, squeezing your other breast as his other hand trails down your stomach again.

“Yeah…m’your girl…”

“Y/N…” Your eyes are screwed shut,

“Hm?” You tense your brow, too focused on the pleasure he gave to you— too focused on the way his mouth felt on you, how his fingers played with the drawstring on your shorts.

“Y/N?”

“What?” You ask impatiently.

“Hey,” He shakes on your shoulder and your eyes shoot open, blinking up at him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

“You knocked out there for a little.” He smirks with amusement, light but knowing. Your cheeks begin to burn when your mind falls back to the moment you had with him prior— a moment you thought was real. You push yourself up from his lap so fast it makes your head spin. “You good?”

“Yep!” The pitch in your voice is a little too high for it to sound normal. The movie’s been paused since the moment you dozed off, you notice. You tilt your head, wondering what Jungkook has been doing if the movie was paused. Your eyes dart towards his lap, one hand grasping onto his phone. When you look up at his face, he’s biting on his lips to try and hide the smirk on his face. “So, you have a nice dream or what?”

You look like a deer in the headlights, the bellowing laugh he lets out is comical, but you’re too horrified to tease him about it, you don’t even have the time to react when he leans over to poke into your side. You yelp, but he’s too fast and he catches your waist to tickle you.

“Oh, Jungkook~” He teases you, and you slide onto your back, trying to wriggle out of his grips but you’re out of breath and laughing like crazy.

“Stop,” You nearly scream at how sensitive you are as he wiggles his fingers into your waist, “Stop that! I ca–can’t breathe!”

You knee him in the stomach by accident, he winces, curling in on himself and grabs at his stomach. You think he doesn’t notice that his head is far too close to your breasts than you’d like. Or maybe you’d like. Shit, you don’t know.

Fuck.

You’re panicking. Your eyes widen again, chest heaving. You feel the throb in your panties. You gasp, pushing on his shoulders, so that you’re sitting up, but you lean too far forward as he’s trying to recover from the hit. His face is inches from yours, your hands gripping onto his shoulders because you think you’re going to fall. Jungkook’s eyes are blown out, you get lost in them; deep depths where his thoughts swim in the circles of internal battles on what to say— what to do.

His fingers twitch when he raises his hand, his movements are unsure, but he knows he’s itching to touch you. He tucks your hair behind your ear, lets his fingers graze your warm cheeks. You blink at him, the tilt in your head makes it known that that there’s cogs turning in your head. You don’t move; you don’t react at all when his hands begin exploring you in a way he never had before.

He moves down, lifting the pendant of your necklace between his fingers, letting it fall back against your heaving chest. He only lets his eyes linger on the swell of your breast for a second, but he notices the way you shift, tucking your legs gingerly beneath where you sat, propped up on your knees. The apartment is silent, bar the sound of his breaths melding with yours, the way your let your eyes drop, following his wandering hand.

Now yours move, too. From his shoulders, up his neck and to cup his face. He doesn’t look at you though, even when you move his head to face you. He just watches the way his hands drag down your arms. Relishing in how soft you feel against his slightly rough hands.

“Kook,” you whisper. “You never pursued me.” It’s more a realisation than a question. He looks up at you now. Your eyes are asking him why he chose to sleep with Yuri, pursue Yuri in such a surface level way. Jungkook was always respectful, a nice guy— but he wasn’t impartial to casual sex. It was clear in the late nights you’d accidentally run into Yuri in the kitchen wearing nothing but his shirt. It wasn’t like there was a new girl in his bed all the time, but if he claimed to like you, why sleep with her when you were in the room next door? But alas, you settle for a simple. “Why?”

He leans into your palm, shutting his eyes for a moment as he inhales sharply through his mouth. “It’s complicated, Y/N.”

Your hands slip from his face, sliding down to his chest. “Is it?” You wonder, “Is it really that complicated?”

Jungkook licks his lips, but he lifts one of your hands from his chest just to intertwine your fingers. “You’re not just another girl to me.” He admits, “I’ve had girlfriends, situationships, hell I’ve had plenty of friends, even.” You snort at the way he flexes that, and he chuckles shyly. You know he didn’t mean for it to sound like some sort of boastful thing. “None of them have seen me the way you’ve seen me. The way you listen, you retain, and you remember. You comfort and you nurture and you’re so full of love.”

You chew on your bottom lip, not anticipating how much his words would hit you straight through the heart. “No one else does it for me, dove. That’s why I’d do anything to keep you in my life. Even if that meant I never got to have you that way I want.”

“What if you can?” You rise from your knees slightly, shuffle closer to him.

“I can what?” You’ve never seen his pupils get so big, but to be fair, you’ve never really allowed yourself to look so deeply into them. Even though you knew they were beautiful, knew how welcoming and full of warmth they were.

“What if you can have me the way that you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, you don’t think he’s going to as you lean closer, dip your head at an angle as your lips brush his. But the moment you send it, think you’re going to feel his lips for the first time, he pulls back, only a little but enough to create space. “Then I’d want you to be sure.” He whispers, looking down.

You must admit that it hurts to be rejected this way. You wonder if this is how Jungkook has felt with you for so long. “If you really mean that, then you can have me. Hell, you already do—

always have.”

“I just…you’re too important to me. I wouldn’t want to rush anything and risk losing you altogether.” His expression is sorrowful when he looks at you again. You try to hide the way your face naturally expresses itself and replace your pout with a smile instead.

“Don’t be sad, dove.” He huffs an amused breath, tilting your chin up when you look down. You feel embarrassed.

“I want to kiss you, so bad it hurts.” He assures you, he leans in, and you close your eyes. Wince when his lips touch your cheek. “So, let’s make a deal. If you still want to kiss me by the end of next week, then I’ll know you meant what you said.” Because was two weeks more? That felt like mere moments to him.

But to you…

“Okay.” you fall back, plopping down onto the couch begrudgingly.

“What happened to patience is a virtue, hm?” He bops you on the nose and you roll your eyes.

“Can we just finish the movie?” You grumble, "I'm tired." He hums softly as he scoots closer to you, even when you lean away from him, pretending that you don’t melt when he pulls you back into his side.

It was the most normal you had felt in days, even if you were venturing into new territory with your roommate.

taglist: @bhonbhon, @rikifever, @jungkookswifeeeeeee, @songbyeonkim @ttanniett, @jungkookswifeeeeeee, @songbyeonkim, @busanbby-jjk, @justsomoneliving, @supercoolchem, @jeeykey, @toosweetforyall, @nikkinikj, @prxdajeon, @whoa-jo, @kelsyx33, @bugbxte, @army7-013, @jmsrealgf, @elimelbe, @yunhoswrldddd

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook fan fiction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jigglyjeon #attss

192 notes · View notes

thethreeeyed-raven · 22 hours ago

Note

I saw you were taking requests, and I was wondering if you could write fluffy dating headcanons of the Saja Boys? Thank you for your time!

dating/courting hc's

navigation | a/n : i’m not very good at headcanons (or happiness) so i’m sorry if this doesn’t live up to your imagination, i decided to put the two reqs together because it was just easier, the cat pics definitely convinced me😭| tags : @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom , @knight-of-flowerss

Jinu

i personally think that he would be scared to approach you directly, so i think he would follow you around for a bit and try to get to know you from a distance so he doesn't mess anything up.

the first time he actually does approach you he would be sweating with nerves.

he really wants you to like him.

he would try to play off the sweating and blame it on the heat but it's quite obvious that that's not the reason.

he would try to hide his demon side from you as to not scare you off.

once you start dating he might reveal little bits of his demon side and eventually tell you his story.

if you are a demon hunter he would be even more cautious with revealing himself and hopes that you would accept him.

Abby

i don't think he's the type to court tbh, i think if he liked you he would just straight up tell you.

however this boy has no shame in trying to get you to like him back.

he would flex his muscles even harder when you are around, maybe going as far as to not even wear a shirt.

and if you're anything like me and would shamelessly ogle at him, he would absolutely eat that shit up.

he would LOVE the fact that you're affected by his abs.

he would probably try to get you to touch them at some point tbh.

when you're dating he's even worse this boy would be flexing at any time trying to get you flustered.

Romance

omg he's literally SHAMELESS.

would definitely try to serenade you.

i think he would be someone who feels emotions deeply, so if he liked you it would definitely feel intense.

would definitely write love letters and poems and send you roses nearly every day.

would also definitely write songs about you and force the boys to perform them with him.

if you’re shy he would so eat that up and purposely do things to fluster you.

would probably be the secret admirer type if you were someone he found intimidating, if not he has no shame in showing that he’s interested in you.

Mystery

he’s very reserved so if he liked you i don’t think it would be obvious at all.

he’d probably share things with you to show that he likes you.

the rest of the boys would catch on after a while, not noticing his subtle change in behaviour around you.

would glare at the boys if they get too close to you, and would be even worse once you start dating.

he likes to nibble at your cheeks or any part of your skin that’s visible, it’s how he shows his affection.

i think not showing his face is a choice tbh but i think he would occasionally show his full face in private.

Baby

he’s so nonchalant it’s unreal.

probably acts like he hates you in front of the boys but still has an arm around your shoulder or is touching you in some way.

i don’t think he’s into pda that much so the most he would do is hold your hand or bump knees if you’re sat down.

would definitely write raps about you in a secret notebook that he makes sure is VERY hidden.

he’s not much of a kisser (in front of people anyway) but steals one every once in awhile.

would definitely make you try spicy food with him and laugh if you can’t handle it. (if you get mad he does make it up to you after and acts like he has to when he just wants to see you happy.)

#kpop demon hunters #saja boys #saja boys x reader #jinu kpdh #jinu #jinu kdh #jinu x reader #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu saja boys #abby saja #abs saja #abs saja x reader #romance saja #romance kpdh #mystery saja #mystery x reader #baby saja #baby saja x reader

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mickyschumacher · 14 hours ago

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[SUMMER SUNSHINE! PT.1]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after learning that oscar's coming home for the holidays, nothing could truly prepare for what you were about to learn! or in which you decide to give oscar the best summer ever.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, slight angst, poor humour, talk of a breakup, indirect mentions of mental health, reader is a uni student, set in nov/dec of '24

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x childhood bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.3k+

𝐀/𝐍: in case anyone was wondering why i've been so oscar-fixated recently.... this is why! my first offical series!!! i've been thinking about this for so long and i just had to get it out of my system!

tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @kakashiislut @taetae-armyyyyy @satorinnie @at-a-rax-ia @op814kitty

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

You had been Hattie's neighbour and childhood best friend for what felt like forever. Despite being a year younger than her, you had done everything together.

Got your seconds done together. Discovered K-pop. Bungee-jumped after your last ever school exams. Even held a funeral for your pet fish named Rocky when you were five because what was the strength of friendship if not for minutes in silence as you watched Hattie's cat eat Rocky?

Point was... she was your ride or die. And you were hers.

Along with her two other sisters, Edie and Mae, who you got along with very well, was her older brother. Oscar.

Well, to you it was always Oscar.

Now it was Oscar Piastri, the famed Australian F1 driver.

He was the one sibling you could never really get on with when you were young. You weren't quite sure why. Most of the time he spent your childhood pissing you off and making you smile simultaneously. Because in the end of the day, no matter which Grand Prix he was winning, he was still the same boy who technically killed Rocky by putting him in the toilet (he thought it had already died). The same boy who tried to get you to kart instead of reading. The same one who teased you nonstop.

You also weren't sure when that effort had stopped. Perhaps when Oscar had moved to England to pursue racing even further. You vividly remembered how devastated Hattie was. It was you sitting on her front step, consoling her after you both dropped him off at the airport.

You remembered Oscar's voice clearly that day. The fifteen-year-old looking at you, a thirteen-year-old, brown eyes firm yet soft. "Take care of her for me," he murmured, referring to his younger sister.

So you did.

Oscar still visited here and there. And Hattie eventually got over it, understanding how important the move was.

Although, you barely knew the Oscar you saw now. You watched the races as you always did because what kind of a neighbour would you be if you didn't? But you couldn't recognise him. The essence of him was still there but... the light in his eyes, it had disappeared.

This summer holiday was going to be wildly different. Because for the first time in two years, Oscar was spending it back home instead of getting his family over in England.

"Holy shit," Hattie cussed, waltzing into your room without a greeting, eyes glued to her phone as you averted your eyes from your textbook.

You smiled sarcastically at your empty doorframe, the one she had just walked through. "Hi Hattie. Sure, come on in," you nodded, scrunching your nose mockingly.

Hattie gave you a pointed look, taking a seat on your bed.

You snorted, turning your body to fully pay attention from your desk. "What's up?" You asked, gesturing to her phone.

"They broke up," Hattie told you matter-of-factly and yet you couldn't tell what on earth she really meant.

You pursed your lips, raising a brow. Resting your chin on the back of your chair, you sighed. "Who broke up?"

Hattie tightened her lips, a grimace falling onto her face. She looked up from her phone and at you. "Oscar and Lily."

Your chin slipped past the chair in shock. You blinked, eyes wide, sitting straight. "What happened? I liked Lily," you exasperated with a frown.

Lily had always been sweet to you and Hattie. You knew her as one of the senior student's in school. Smart, pretty, and kind. All you needed to describe her.

Hattie gave a small shrug. "I don't know. Apparently it's been four months since it happened. Mum just found about it yesterday."

Four months? That was almost close to half a fucking year. No wonder Oscar had been looking so grim. A whole Constructor's championship and two race wins and he could barely smile.

"That's sucks," you commented idly, trying to avoid picking into the situation. It was better for your sanity if you didn't feed into your nosiness.

Hattie sighed, falling into your bed dramatically. "Now we have to take care of a broken baby when he gets home," she groaned jokingly, covering her face with her hands.

You rolled your eyes before looking at your desk calendar. "I'm sure he's going to love hearing that when he comes tomorrow.

Your best friend peeked through her hands. Clearing her throat, he opened her mouth. "Speaking of which... I need you to pick him up tomorrow."

"What?" Your head turned with a newfound speed. You furrowed your brows, confusion immediately crowding your brain. "I thought you guys were picking him up."

Hattie sat up, sheepishly smiling at you. "Mum's got pilates, dad's at work, Mae and Edie are, well, doing whatever they're doing and me and Ben have our two year anniversary. I can't subject Oscar to my absolutely perfect love life knowing what I know now!"

You stared at her in silence. You wondered if the incredulity was showing on your face right now. Mulling over her words, you sighed. "Why can't he just get an Uber?"

"Because it's a twenty-three hour flight from Monaco and I think the poor boy's forgotten what it's like to be economy!" Hattie retorted with a snort.

You blinked blankly, eyes back on your calendar.

Unbelievable.

Your plans for tomorrow included driving an F1 driver back home.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You weren't a fan of airports. They always made you feel like you were absolutely in the middle of nowhere. The air was always tempered with, artificial and crisp. And the waiting area was the worst. A bunch of strangers walking back and forth, hoping the person they were looking for was coming out. Of course, this was all second to the security check-ins.

You looked down at your watch, peeling your eyes away from the book you had been reading. 7:30 AM. That was when Oscar would land. That was the diabolical time Hattie had given to you. And it had been thirty minutes since then.

You could only sigh. Melbourne and their security.

Returning to the book, you looked up every few minutes, hoping the familiar face would register in your head. Perhaps, you should wait for a few screams of his name and you'd find him.

With every word of your book had been pulling you in, you hadn't realised you were so engrossed until a voice had broken your trance.

"Of course I come back to find you with a book."

Your eyes flitted up, honing in on the Australian boy and his suitcase before rolling them. "Why do you and your sister never say 'Hi' or 'How are you?'" You grumbled, closing the book before you put it away.

Oscar grinned, taking a step too close for your liking. "Hi ___. How are you?" He queried, brown eyes searching yours while he leaned in.

What the...

You quickly surveyed Oscar. In many ways, he still looked like the kid you knew. Except a bit taller and well, wider in the neck. Oddly enough, he didn't look like the guy on your screen. He looked... miserable, if that was the nicest way you could put it.

Bags under his eyes, fatigued, pale, posture drooping... all signs of an unwell F1 driver you supposed.

You blinked, bringing yourself back to reality. You curled your lips in distaste, taking a step back. You turned towards the exit and began walking. "If you're done with being an idiot, you'll follow after me and help yourself with your own suitcase," you called out.

Oscar watched you retreat and chuckled to himself. Pushing his feet to catch up to you, he nudged you slightly. "As generous as I remember," he joked.

You only smiled dryly at him. "What can I say? I gotta big heart," you retorted.

Finally arriving to your car, you sighed at the sight of the poor thing. It was a hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle, once painted in a pretty baby blue and now chipped in a bit too many place and bordering on grey. You winced. "Listen... it's no McLaren but..."

"It was your mum's right?" Oscar asked, walking around the vehicle as he inspected it.

"Uh... yeah." You blinked in surprise, nodding slowly. You mended your brows. "How did you..."

"I remember how much you wanted it as a kid. And your mum told you you'd get it when you passed your full," Oscar mumbled.

You raked your head over the memory, only small chunks coming back to you. "Huh. I'm surprised you remember that. I barely do," you grinned, heading to open the side door, unaware of the small smile Oscar sported.

"Okay," you sighed, pushing aside your handbag. Looking back at him, you gestured to his suitcase. "Shove her in there and we'll hit the road. Do you need anything to eat?"

Oscar lifted the bag and put it inside your car, quickly shrugging off his backpack as well. "Depends," he said loudly as you walked to the driver's seat. "Hattie said you make a mean eggs bene." He raised a brow, capturing your sceptical expression.

"Oh come on." Oscar shut the side door, heading to the passenger's seat. "I just came from Monaco to Melbourne. A twenty-three hour flights," he exasperated, lips quirking in amusement as he looked over at you.

You put a hand on your hip. "And yet somehow I'm don't feel sorry for you," you smiled, opening your door.

Oscar rolled his eyes, doing the same as you. He relished the comfort of a soft seat after so long. Buckling his seatbelt, he turned to you. "You know I don't remember you being this mean as a kid."

You narrowed your eyes, not enjoying the grin on his face at all. "You get what you dish out, Osc," you shrugged.

"You're not still mad about Rocky?" He laughed, feeling slightly alarmed at your silence. "Right?" Oscar pressed.

Suppressing your smirk, you turned your key and felt your baby come to life. "Hold on tight, Oscar. You're about to see some true Melbourne speed."

━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar looked around your house as you cooked in the kitchen. It looked the same and yet it didn't.

He smiled fondly. He could still see the small lines of pencil on your dining room wall where you, Hattie, and him measured yourselves. Hattie was always the shortest back then but it had seemed you had now taken that position.

Your patio, which was once full of paint stains when you and Oscar had gotten into a bit of a fight, was redone. Although if you looked closely, you could still see splotches of pink and orange try to bleed through the brown.

Your living room still had all the pictures and portraits he had once seen, although they had been extended with pictures of you growing up. The only brand new thing he could find was the glass case near your shelf of books.

Oscar furrowed his brows, inching closer. His eyes widened, scanning the familiar papaya colour, registering the '81' in the photos, the captured trophies, the newspaper cutouts... all of him.

It was like every single moment of his racing career had been displayed right in front of him.

"Mum and Dad like to keep trinkets. They're so proud so I always find something to add to the collection," your voice lingered in the air as you came out of the kitchen.

Oscar turned, swallowing hard, watching you place down his breakfast on the dining table. He gave you a grateful smile. "I... thank you," he breathed, voice feeling tight.

"You're welcome... for now. Once I graduate, I'm replacing the photo of your first win with my degree," you retorted, a grin playing on your lips.

Oscar smiled, amused at your words. He walked over to the table, taking a seat. He looked over at you as he grabbed the pepper shaker. "It was mechanical engineering, right? That's what you're doing."

"More like it's doing my head in," you mumbled in distaste, taking a sip of water.

Oscar listened silently as you explained your degrees, your problems, and worries. He wondered when you had gotten so old. Just yesterday, he could've sworn he watched you give a daisy chain to him. Now you were stressing about potential career options at twenty-two.

"How about you?" You asked.

Oscar raised a brow, blinking out of his trance. "Hmm?"

"Two-time race winner... a Constructor's champion. Life sounds good," you commented.

"Yeah I guess," Oscar shrugged, chewing on his lip.

You raised a brow. "You guess? If Lily was here, she'd–" You cut yourself off, eyes widening with horror.

Shit.

"Sorry," you murmured, wincing at your words. "I... I only heard about it yesterday. It sucks that it happened."

Oscar stared at you before giving you a tight smile. "It's okay," he said quietly. You both remained quiet for a couple of minutes, unsure of what to say.

He could see the struggle in your eyes. An internal debate. The words were on the tip of your tongue. What on earth happened?

"I think I fell out of love," he admitted, shoulders finally slumping as the weight dissipated.

You opened your mouth to say it was okay, that he didn't need to tell you but Oscar was speaking before you could even say it.

"We both did. We were fighting. We could barely look at each other. Everything was just so irritating. I... I don't know. One day it went too far. We both said some things we regret. And in that moment, we knew. It was over."

The silence was palpable. You could've reached for the air and like some sort of thick fog, you'd capture the quiet pain in your hands.

Your eyes softened. You reached for his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "I'm sorry, Osc. I really am."

Oscar looked at your hand and back at you. He sighed, giving you a small smile. "It's okay," he reminded, "I'm excited to be home anyways."

You grinned, eyes sparkling. "Trust me. You're going to have the best summer ever."

#mickyschumacher #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x you #micky's summer sunshine series 🐚

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whisperedmeg · 1 day ago

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THE LAW OF TRULY LARGE NUMBERS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x analyst!reader

summary: the law of truly large numbers says coincidences are inevitable. but somehow, running into spencer reid never stops feeling like fate.

genre: fluff! | w/c: 3.4k

tags/warnings: none really. reader has some self-image issues and insecurities related to a sucky ex but nothing too crazy. glasses!reid, reader works for the fbi but not the bau, written with fem!reader in mind but could pass for gn!reader too if you ignore one use of the world “girl,” story takes place over the course of a few weeks but I wasn’t wildly specific about it

a/n: based on this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight! this ended up getting longer than I intended originally but oh well, I was having way too much fun coming up with ideas for how they’d run into each other next lol. hope you enjoy, tysm for requesting! ❣️

You first meet Spencer Reid at 8:21am on a Tuesday morning.

You’re holding a paper bag of still-warm pastries because your unit chief is on a “morale boost” kick this week and nothing says team bonding like volunteering to bring in baked goods. You’re thinking about the long day ahead and how stale the break room coffee is going to be and not watching where you’re going when the elevator doors open and—

You almost walk straight into him.

He’s tall. Tall-tall. And thin in a slightly unwell academic way, tousled brown hair parted on the side, honey brown eyes wide and blinking at you through browline glasses.

“Sorry,” you both say at once. You take a step back. So does he. Then he does that thing people do where he gestures for you to go ahead, and you hesitate before stepping forward at the same time as him, and now you’re doing an awkward, uncoordinated dance in front of a steel box.

Eventually, you both make it in.

You press the button for floor 5. He presses 6. Someone else gets in and hits the button for 4.

You stand silently. He glances at you. Then down at the floor. Then at your badge, clipped to the waistband of your dress pants. Then at the bag of pastries.

“The cinnamon ones are the best. If those are from Van’s, I mean,” he says tentatively.

You blink. “They are, actually.”

He nods. “They use Saigon cinnamon. It’s from Vietnam. It’s stronger, a little spicier than regular cinnamon. I—sorry, I’ve, uh, read a lot about spices recently.”

You don’t have time to answer before the doors open and he’s stepping out into the hallway, manila file folder tucked under his arm.

It takes you a second to realize he got off on the fourth floor with the other passenger by mistake. You catch him making an embarrassed, awkward turn back toward the elevators once he’s halfway down the hall before the metal doors slide shut.

You think about Saigon cinnamon and those glasses for the rest of the day.

—

Friday morning, 9:12am. You’re running horribly late.

You’ve got a USB stick in your hand and a mission in your head — get it encrypted, get it cleaned up, get it into the system by 10am. You’re halfway through the lobby when someone says your name.

You freeze. Turn. He’s already waving.

It takes you a second to place him without the glasses.

He’s wearing contacts today. His hair’s a little neater. Another soft sweater — burgundy this time — and a leather messenger bag slung across his chest like he just walked out of a grad seminar.

“Hey,” he says, catching up with you near the badge check. “Van’s cinnamon pastries, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re still thinking about those?”

“Hard not to,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m Spencer,” he adds, like you don’t already know that from his badge, same way you assume he knew your name.

You both hesitate. You’re painfully aware of the USB drive in your hand and the growing line of people waiting for the elevators and the clock ticking steadily toward 10am. Your eyes dart to the stairs — they seem to be the fastest option.

He shifts his weight, pushes his hair back behind one ear.

“Can I walk you up?”

You blink. “What?”

“To wherever you’re going. I’m headed to the sixth floor, but I’m not in a rush. We’re between cases right now.”

You laugh. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Too late,” he says, and he falls into step beside you.

—

It’s raining when you see him again.

Not dramatic rain, just a halfhearted Virginia drizzle that dampens your sleeves while you fumble with your umbrella and mutter curses under your breath. You duck into the small coffee shop across from the office — the one with the black bistro tables and an overfilled bulletin board — and shake the water from your coat as you slide into line.

You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy debating between hot chocolate and your usual latte.

But then someone behind you says your name.

You turn, and there he is.

Spencer.

Hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. Glasses fogged. Sweater vest layered under a coat too thin for this kind of weather. He smiles at you — tentative, like he’s not sure if you’ll smile back.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless. “You following me?”

He blushes. “No, I’m—I mean, we both work across the street, so it’s not, um, statistically improbable we’d run into each other here.”

“I’ll chalk it up to fate.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and steps up beside you.

“Can I guess your order?” he asks.

You arch a brow. “You’re going to profile my coffee?”

He shrugs. “I can try.”

“Be my guest.”

He tilts his head. “You work long hours. You probably don’t get enough sleep. You must drink something with espresso in it, but not just that — it has to be dressed up enough to feel like a treat. Maybe a seasonal flavor.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Okay, that’s… freakishly accurate.”

“Caramel latte?” he guesses.

“Close. Pumpkin,” you admit. “But that was impressive.”

He shrugs again, cheeks a little pink. “Lots of practice.”

A few minutes later, you’re both perched at one of the tiny round tables by the fogged-up window, drinks in hand, steam curling up between you. You’re technically on your break. So is he. Neither of you seems eager to get back.

You ask what he’s working on. He tells you about his last case, a triple homicide in Texas. Then he asks about your job, and you explain — badly — what exactly a tech analyst does for a department that isn’t the BAU. You’re pretty sure you’re boring him to death, but he’s watching you like you’ve just quoted Wordsworth.

“You talk with your hands a lot,” he says, after a pause.

You blink. “What?”

“When you’re excited,” he adds, quickly. “Not all the time. Just when you’re explaining something that matters to you. You kind of —” he makes a vague fluttering motion with his fingers, “— move them like you’re sculpting the air or something.”

Your face burns. You wrap your hands around your coffee cup.

“Oh. Yeah. That,” you murmur. “My ex used to say it was distracting.”

Spencer’s expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you see it — a flicker of something protective in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s distracting,” he says. “I think it’s cute.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

The moment folds in on itself. His face goes pink again, and he ducks his head as he mutters something about meaning it in a completely observational way, not, you know—

You interrupt before he can spiral further. “Spencer.”

He looks up.

You smile. “It’s okay.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Rain patters softly against the glass. In your chest, something flutters.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a friendly coffee. A weird coincidence of schedules and elevators and cinnamon pastries. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

But when he offers to walk you back — and when you say yes — your heart betrays you a little.

—

The FBI library isn’t exactly cozy. It smells like aging carpet and copier toner, but there’s still something about it that you’ve always found comforting. Especially on days like today, when your code has glitched five separate times and someone on your team said “let’s pivot” like that actually means anything and you just need a break away from a screen.

You’re curled up at one of the long wooden tables near the back with a spiral notebook, a pencil, and a pile of casefiles your unit chief asked you to cross-reference to give you an excuse to work on something that didn’t involve a keyboard. It’s not thrilling, but it’s quiet. Which counts for something.

You don’t notice Spencer at first.

He’s sitting at a smaller table a few feet from yours when you glance up — half-hidden behind a teetering stack of psychology journals, long fingers curled around a fountain pen, hair falling into his face.

He looks up a second after you do.

“You again,” he says softly, like it’s a private joke.

You arch an eyebrow. “Starting to think you’re stalking me.”

“You’re the one in my library,” he says, mock offended.

“Your library?”

He nods. “I basically live here.”

You glance at the empty paper cup beside him, the five or six books spread out across the table, the absurdly detailed notes he’s scrawling in messy handwriting.

“Yeah, I can see that. You’ve really made yourself at home.”

Silently, he gathers his belongings and moves to take the empty seat across from you at your table.

You go back to your work. So does he.

But every few minutes, you catch yourself glancing up.

Not on purpose, not exactly. It’s just… he’s got this way of reading like he’s somewhere else entirely. Lips moving a little. Eyes flicking fast across pages. You wonder if he knows how intense he looks when he’s thinking. How pretty his hands are when they move — when he writes, when he fidgets with his pen, when he adjusts his glasses like he’s trying to hide behind them.

You wonder what it would feel like if he looked at you the way he looks at those pages or if he touched you with those hands.

He wouldn’t, of course.

You’ve long accepted that you’re not the kind of girl guys like that go for — not crisp and stylish, not someone who walks into a room and makes the temperature change. You’ve never quite known how to wear your hair right, or what to do with your hands, or how to stop fixating on the way your nose looks in photos. You haven’t even dated since the last guy — the one who told you that you were being “a little much” anytime you got excited about something.

You shake your head. Focus.

You’re halfway through reviewing the next file when you realize Spencer’s watching you.

“Sorry,” he says, when you meet his eyes. “I was just—I was going to ask if that’s a 0.7mm Pentel mechanical pencil.”

You blink. Look down. “Uh… yeah?”

“I thought so,” he says. “You write really small. And neat.”

You stare at him, then down at your paper, then back up.

“Are you profiling my handwriting now?”

He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Only a little.”

You smile despite yourself.

After a pause, he adds, “I like it — your handwriting. It’s meticulous.”

You laugh. “I’ve never heard that word used as a compliment before.”

“Well, I mean it as one.”

There’s something in his voice — not flirtatious, exactly, but sincere. Earnest. He doesn’t even realize it’s making your heart hiccup a little.

You don’t talk much more after that, but when you both stand up at the same time twenty minutes later and realize you’re heading out in the same direction, you fall easily into step beside him.

And this time, you both walk a little slower.

—

It’s just after 1 p.m. when you walk into the Quantico cafeteria.

The lunch rush is tapering off — fewer suits in line, more empty trays abandoned on beige tables. You slide your badge into your pocket and step toward the soup station, only half paying attention. You haven’t eaten much today, and your stomach’s been in knots ever since Spencer spotted you in the stairwell earlier and asked what time you were heading to lunch.

You try to act casual when you spot him.

He’s at a table near the window, brown paper bag open in front of him and a spiral notebook beside it. He’s writing something down, but he looks up the moment you approach as if he’d been eagerly waiting.

“Hey,” he says, and the smile he gives you is small and a little shy. “I was hoping you’d come.”

You sit across from him, tray in hand. “Yeah, well, you did say in the library last week that the soup selection is better on Thursdays.”

His eyes widen slightly. “You remembered that?”

You nod, breaking off a piece of bread. “You said it’s the only day they serve lentil soup, which also happens to be the only soup they make that you claim is any good.”

“I stand by that.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it catches you off guard. It’s easy with him. You like the way he doesn’t fill silences just to fill them and how he listens like every word you say is a thread he wants to follow all the way to its center.

You talk for a while. About work, a little. About books and poetry and music. About your mutual disbelief that anyone could function on decaf. He doesn’t flirt, not exactly, but he compliments you — in that slightly awkward, matter-of-fact, Spencer Reid way that’s somehow more disarming than a rehearsed line.

You’re telling him about your failed attempt to install a new monitor alone while you had a broken arm last year when he goes still for a moment, causing you to trail off into silence. He clears his throat.

“Would you maybe want to, uh, go out with me sometime?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“What?”

He fidgets. Pushes his glasses up. “I mean, like, to a real lunch or coffee or something. Not in the office. I just—I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, and I was thinking, if you wanted, we could—”

You shake your head.

It’s not harsh. You don’t mean it to be. It’s just… instinct.

He stops talking. His face falters. “Oh,” he says softly. “Okay. Yeah. No worries.”

You rush to explain. “It’s not you. Really—I mean, I just… don’t get it. Why would you want to go out with me?”

Spencer blinks.

You look down at your tray. “You’re a genius,” you murmur, voice low. “You’ve probably read more books this week alone than I have in the last two years. You talk like a textbook and still somehow make everything sound incredibly poetic. And you—God, you’re so—”

Cute. Attractive. Hot. That’s what you want to say, but you stop yourself before you can finish the statement. You swallow hard.

“And I’m… not,” you finish quietly.

It’s not that you don’t want to say yes. God, you do. But there’s a familiar ache in your chest, a voice you haven’t shaken, the echo of someone who once made you feel like being too much meant you’d also always be not enough.

Across from you, Spencer is silent. For a second, you wonder if he’s angry. Or worse, embarrassed.

But when you finally look up, he’s just watching you — gently, curiously, like he’s figuring something out.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. His brow furrows slightly.

You stand. The words come out too quickly: “I should get back to my office. I’ve got a code freeze coming up and I told my boss I’d review the rollout plan before—yeah.”

He nods. “Right. Of course. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You hate the way his voice sounds now — too polite. Too guarded.

You force a smile as you gather your tray. “Thanks again for the soup rec.”

You make it out of the cafeteria before the lump in your throat rises.

You tell yourself it was the right call. It’s better this way. You’re not built for someone like him. You’d only mess it up.

But when you glance back, just once, through the glass of the cafeteria doors, Spencer’s still sitting there, scribbling in his notebook like maybe if he writes enough, he can make sense of whatever just happened.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s writing a list.

—

It’s raining again the next afternoon.

Not much — just a misty drizzle that turns the parking lot into a soft gray blur. You’re already halfway to your car when you hear footsteps behind you. Then a voice, calling your name.

“Wait—wait, just—can you stop for a second?”

You turn.

Spencer is jogging toward you, messenger bag bouncing against his hip, one hand holding a flimsy-looking umbrella, the other gripping something — a piece of paper, maybe. His coat is half-buttoned. His glasses are a little fogged.

He’s completely out of breath by the time he reaches you.

“Hi,” he pants. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chase you down, I just—I tried to find you on your floor, and they said you left early, and I—”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “No. I mean—I’ve been thinking. Since yesterday.”

You look away. “Spencer, we don’t have to talk about—”

“I made a list,” he blurts out.

You freeze. “What?”

He thrusts it at you — a folded piece of notebook paper, lined, slightly smudged. You unfold it slowly, holding it under the umbrella he’s angled over you, and he watches you like he’s just handed over something radioactive.

It reads:

Reasons I like you and want to go out with you: A non-exhaustive list by Dr. Spencer Reid

you talk with your hands

you remember weird things I say about soup

you were nice to me in the elevator even though I rambled about cinnamon

you snort when you laugh (you try to hide it but I’ve heard it twice)

you don’t pretend to know things you don’t, and you always ask good questions

you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating

you don’t hold my technophobe tendencies against me even though your job is literally all tech all the time

your whole face lights up when you’re excited about something

we have the same taste in pastries and poetry and classical music

you talk about the people you care about with more kindness and affection than I thought possible

your nose scrunches a little when you’re confused and I think it’s adorable

speaking of which, I think everything about you is adorable. “beautiful” would be a more apt word to use, actually

you said us meeting in the coffee shop that one day was “fate” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it (or believing in it) since

You stare at the list for a long moment. Then you press your lips together, eyes stinging.

“It’s not exhaustive,” Spencer says quietly. “And it’s in no particular order. I wrote it fast. I could probably think of twenty more things. I… I like lists.”

Your fingers tremble slightly on the page.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “You’re… you. And I’m…” You trail off.

He tilts his head, studying you. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

You look away.

He steps forward, voice softer now.

“I don’t like you despite who you are — I like you because of it. Because you say what you mean, and you get excited about the little things, and you care more than most people do, and you never look at me like I’m too nerdy or too awkward or too much.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought I messed everything up yesterday,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says. “You were just scared. I get that.”

“I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Me too. We can be scared together.”

You smile and fold the list carefully like it’s something delicate.

And before you can overthink it, before the doubt creeps in again, you lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

But in the same moment, he coincidentally turns his head just slightly. Just enough that your lips land on his mouth instead.

It’s only for a second. A little awkward. Completely accidental, but also completely real.

He blinks. You blink.

You start to pull away.

But then he wraps his free arm around you and kisses you again, on purpose this time, the umbrella overhead shielding you both from the rain. It doesn’t last too long, but it’s soft and smiley and achingly wonderful.

When you break apart, you’re still in disbelief that it even happened at all. You look up at him, studying him, searching his face for signs of regret. You can’t find any.

“I keep thinking about all the times we ran into each other,” you say softly. “So many coincidences, it almost feels improbable.”

He smiles again, brighter this time. “There’s a theory called the law of truly large numbers,” he says. “It basically says that with a large enough sample size, coincidences are inevitable.”

You tilt your head with a quiet chuckle. “So this was all just math, basically? That’s kind of depressing.”

“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “it means the universe just kept trying. Over and over, until it got it right. Like fate.”

You smile fondly and kiss him again before he can say anything else.

Not just a coincidence. Not anymore.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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193 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 18 hours ago

Note

Hi how are you? So I have a kinda weird request because is for drivers that usually don’t a lot of love lol but since you wrote for mick i think i won’t be judge lol.

So mick x stroll!reader x esteban have been dating for a couple years but no one in the public knows, only their families and some close friends/drivers know. The three of them are ALWAYS together and fans think she’s either dating mick or este, or even that mick and esteban are dating each other and reader is the third wheel 😂 and she spends race days going from one garage to other to support her brother and her boyfriends (so i guess mick needs to be driving in f1 for this to work, any team works tbh)

So eventually mick and este get to share a podium and she is so proud that ends up hard launching their relationship lol.

Anyway that’s my little weird request, thanks for reading my rambling 🫶🏻

estie bestie? no. estie boyfie. — mick schumacher + esteban ocon

smau + blurbs

esteban ocon x stroll reader x mick schumacher

to the world, you were lance stroll’s supportive younger sister, maybe wag to esteban ocon— maybe mick schumacher. or maybe, as twitter liked to suggest, the tragic third wheel to their slow burn bromance. and you let them believe it. because the truth? you’d been in love with both of them — and they with you — for nearly three years. it started quietly. long nights in hotel rooms after races, comfort in shared silences, in the way mick kissed your knuckles before press conferences and esteban held your hand under the table during dinners. now it was your normal—switching garages like outfits, falling asleep tangled between two hearts you never expected to hold. no one knew — except a few friends, family, and the world’s worst secret keeper— sebastian vettel. to everyone else, you were just the girl with too many lanyards, too many photo ops, and too many unexplained blushes when either of them walked past. but behind the pr smiles and speculation threads, your love story was unfolding. and the world was getting closer to finding out.

fc : kornelia.ski

(a/n) : hi baby! im okay, life’s been rough. been beating me down a little bit but thank you for asking! hope you are well. i am so sorry this took so long— I’ve been behind but I hope you enjoy it! love youuuu

—

yn_stroll

liked by lance_stroll, estebanocon, mickschumacher and 1,115,707 others.

yn_stroll : my recent chaos 🎞️📷

tagged : lance_stroll, estebanocon and mickschumacher

—

view 185,305 other comments.

lance_stroll : why am i always collateral in your little aesthetic dumps…you always post the worst pictures 🙄🙄

liked by yn_stroll

↳ yn_stroll : not my fault you look ugly every time my camera comes out 😁

↳ lance_stroll : im taking away your paddock privileges. you are BANNED.

↳ yn_stroll : luckily i still have two ways in…3 if you count ollie

liked by olliebearman, mickschumacher and estebanocon

lando : so which one is your boyfriend or are they boyfriends???

liked by yn_stroll

↳ yn_stroll : nosey nosey man.

liked by lando

↳ lando : IM NOT NOSEY. mainly just want to know if you’re single 👀

liked by yn_stroll

↳ lance_stroll : out lando

↳ mickschumacher : she will not be going out with lando ‘man whore’ norris

↳ lando : i have one phase and get banned for life

↳ olliebearman : boooooo tomatoes tomatoes 🍅 🍅

liked by yn_stroll and estebanocon

↳ lando : OK OK. why is the child here

↳ yn_stroll : he is my bestie

liked by olliebearman

username00 : she sits between them on the plane. I AM IN TEARS. they are so together.

haasf1team : our estie and his besties 💅🏻

liked by yn_stroll, estebanocon and mickschumacher

↳ username0 : are we sure they are just besties??👀

username1 : lance being the only unbothered one while his sister and two of his colleagues carry out a covert love plot 😭💀

sebastianvettel : Miss all this chaos. Come visit soon Liebling!

liked by yn_stroll

↳ yn_stroll : miss you more! we are planning on making a trip within the next month!

liked by sebastianvettel

↳ username5 : we???? oh they r so dating.

—

You knew before even sitting down that this flight was going to be ridiculous. Because someone — probably Esteban — had insisted on booking three seats in a row, even in first class. Just the three of you, limbs too long and too tangled, stuffed into a luxury cocoon of champagne. You were wedged in the middle, naturally. Where you always ended up. You didn’t mind.

Mick was already curled up by the window, hoodie up, face tucked into the neck pillow you’d stolen from the lounge. He looked soft and impossibly tired — probably from whatever late night sim race he’d gotten dragged into the night before. Esteban, on the other hand, was still scrolling through the in flight movie options like it was a life or death decision.

“Just pick one,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. “We’ll be in Miami before you decide.”

“I don’t want to waste it on something you two will sleep through,” he replied, voice low and teasing as he glanced at you. “You always do. Ten minutes in and it’s dead weight on both sides.”

You stuck your tongue out, and on cue, Mick reached over and gently flicked his forehead.

“I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes,” he mumbled, eyes still closed but his hand finding yours under the shared blanket.

“Liar,” you smiled, threading your fingers through his. “You were snoring during the safety video.”

“I was breathing deeply.”

Esteban snorted. “You were whistling through your nose.”

You couldn’t help but laugh — that half silent kind of giggle that makes your chest ache with love. The cabin lights had dimmed, casting the three of you in a soft gold glow. You shifted in your seat, the curve of Mick’s body pressing warmly against your side while Esteban pulled the blanket higher up your lap, thumb drawing lazy circles on your knee beneath it.

It was a moment no one else would ever see. No cameras. No paddock rumors. Just quiet breathing and shared warmth.

“I love this,” you said softly, mostly to yourself.

Esteban heard it anyway. He turned toward you, his nose brushing your cheek. “What? The terrible rom-com you’re about to fall asleep during?”

You shook your head. “This. Us. Flying across the world for another chaotic race weekend. But having… this. You two.”

Mick shifted closer, his voice hoarse and gentle in your ear. “You always have us. You know that, right?”

You nodded, but your throat felt tight, like you could cry if you let yourself.

Esteban leaned in and kissed your temple, while Mick kissed the back of your hand. Neither of them needed you to explain. They just knew.

“We’ll stay like this forever,” Esteban whispered. “Just maybe one day we will stop hiding from the people on Twitter…”

You laughed again — tired, safe, soft. Wrapped in a blanket of limbs and love, tucked between the only two people in the world who made the chaos worth it.

And when the movie finally started and your eyes began to drift shut, you barely registered Esteban pulling your legs across his lap or Mick laying his head in your neck. You were right where you belonged.

—

The hotel suite was big, stupidly big, with windows that overlooked the city skyline. Neon lights danced across the walls as the sun dipped below the edge of the world, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the low thrum of nightlife already waking up. But in here, it was quiet. Soft. Dimly lit and safe.

You’d barely kicked off your shoes before Esteban was tugging your carry on out of your hand and disappearing into the bathroom with a whispered, “Give me ten minutes.”

Mick had already flopped down onto the king sized bed, still in his hoodie from the flight, arms behind his head and eyes closed like he planned to nap through the weekend.

You stood awkwardly by the window, unsure what to do with yourself until he cracked one eye open and smiled.

“Stop hovering,” he said, voice thick with affection. “Come here.”

You padded over and let him pull you down beside him, your head landing on his chest, his fingers finding your hair immediately. He always ran his hands through it when you were tired — and you were, deep in your bones.

“I ordered room service,” he murmured. “Your pasta, Este’s weird sparkling water, my burger. Should be up soon.”

“You’re perfect,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah, well. You’re easy to love.”

Before you could reply, the bathroom door cracked open and a wave of steam poured out. Esteban stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and a mischievous smile on his face.

“Bath’s ready,” he said, like he hadn’t just transformed a standard hotel tub into a spa sanctuary.

You sat up, blinking. “You ran me a bath?”

“With bubbles,” he said proudly. “And lavender oil. And I folded a towel into a swan.”

Mick raised a brow. “You folded a swan?”

“It’s a gesture,” Esteban said, waving dramatically. “She deserves softness.”

You laughed, unable to hide how your heart swelled in your chest. No matter how many races you traveled to, no matter how many late nights or jetlagged days — they never let you forget how loved you were.

You pressed a kiss to Mick’s cheek, then padded into the bathroom, where Esteban was waiting with the biggest, dorkiest grin and a glass of wine he definitely swiped from the minibar.

“Get in,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

You blinked up at him, overwhelmed. “You guys… you didn’t have to—”

He stopped you with a kiss to the top of your head.

“We wanted to.”

By the time you sunk into the warm water, bubbles lapping gently at your skin, Mick wandered in with a plate of breadsticks and settled onto the bathroom floor. Esteban knelt behind you, fingers gently massaging shampoo into your scalp while you leaned back into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. The three of you, in your own little world, quiet and full of love. No cameras. No questions. No hiding. Just the soft hum of city lights and the feeling of being completely, wholly safe.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,110,003 likes.

f1gossipgirls : The paddock’s favorite (unconfirmed) throuple has arrived in Miami! YN Stroll was spotted alongside big brother Lance on Thursday for media day duties, keeping things casual and cool as ever. Meanwhile, Esteban Ocon and Mick Schumacher made their entrance together, only fueling rumors that something a little more than friendly is going on behind the scenes. Throughout the weekend, YN was seen bouncing between the Haas and Mercedes garages, often in tow with both Esteban and Mick — sometimes hand in hand, sometimes with one arm slung over each shoulder, always leaving fans and photographers asking the same question—who is she actually dating… or is it both? No confirmations, no denials — just a lot of coordinated outfits, knowing glances, and suspiciously affectionate moments. Stay tuned, because this triangle isn’t getting less tangled anytime soon.

—

Your hair was already sticking to the back of your neck by the time you’d jogged from the Aston hospitality tent to the Mercedes garage for the third time that day. The paddock was sweltering, Miami sun sharp and unforgiving, but you didn’t care — you had a job to do. Well, not a real job.

Just the emotionally demanding and highly unrecognized role of loving two very competitive F1 drivers without spontaneously combusting from the attention it brought.

“Thought I’d lost you to Aston,” Mick teased the second you stepped through the Mercedes garage entrance.

He looked unfairly good in the heat — sleeves rolled up, headset pushed back, towel around his neck. He passed you a cold water bottle without you even asking, then leaned down to press a quick, barely there kiss to your cheek. It was too crowded for anything more. Too many eyes. Too many cameras.

“I’m doing my rounds,” you said dramatically, taking a long sip and smiling at him over the cap. “Your PR girl gave me a look like I was loitering.”

Mick chuckled. “That’s because you’re always stealing my snacks.”

You winked. “And your hoodies. And your heart.”

Before he could respond, your phone buzzed with a single word text from Esteban—

NOW.

You sighed, kissed Mick’s hand, and turned to head toward Haas.

The second you stepped into the Haas garage, someone was already barreling toward you.

“YN!!” Ollie Bearman’s voice cracked.

He looked sun kissed and over caffeinated, throwing his arms around you in a hug that nearly knocked your sunglasses off.

“I’ve seen you three times today and you’ve ditched me every time,” he pouted, still holding onto you like a clingy little brother. “Am I no longer your favorite Brit?”

You snorted. “You were never my favorite Brit. That’s Lewis. But you’re close.”

Ollie gasped like you’d just kicked him in the shins. “You’re cruel. Evil. Cold hearted.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He pulled you into the Haas motorhome and flopped dramatically onto the couch, dragging you down with him. “Do the boyfriends know you cheat on them with me every weekend?”

You glanced toward the other side of the hospitality area, where Esteban was deep in conversation with an engineer, but his eyes flicked to you like they always did — like a compass needle realigning with north.

He smiled.

You smiled back.

“They’re fine with it,” you whispered to Ollie, nudging his knee with yours. “You’re harmless.”

“I could be scandalous,” he said and shrugged.

“You eat cereal with orange juice.”

He groaned. “Why would you bring that up again?! I was out of milk!”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. Ollie leaned against you, limbs too long and too chaotic, while Esteban finally made his way over.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, one brow raised.

Ollie looked up. “Just convincing her to dump you for me.”

Esteban didn’t miss a beat. “You’ll have to fight Mick.”

“Threesome boxing match?” Ollie suggested.

You smacked his arm. “OUT.”

Esteban offered you a hand to pull you up, his fingers brushing softly against yours — the smallest secret in a space filled with noise and heat and protocol.

You leaned up and gave Ollie a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ll always be my favorite backup plan.”

“I’m honored,” he called after you dramatically, hand to his chest.

You left with Esteban, fingers brushing briefly between you, both of you pretending your heart wasn’t beating just a little faster. It was exhausting, this dance — slipping between garages, between stories, between glances that held so much more than they could say. But you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when love waited for you in every corner of the paddock.

—

By the time you made it to back Aston, the sun was high, the air sticky with Miami heat. Your paddock pass was practically a golden ticket at this point, but walking into the Aston garage felt like walking into your actual home base. Lance spotted you immediately, slouched in a director’s chair with his race suit half zipped and a protein shake in hand.

“Look who finally remembered she has a brother,” he called out, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, plucking his shake from his hand and sipping it without asking. “You’ve seen me three times today.”

“Yeah, sprinting past me like I’m background noise.”

Fernando, sitting nearby with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face, tilted his head. “To be fair, she is in high demand.”

You smirked. “Thank you, Nando. At least someone appreciates me.”

Lance scoffed. “He’s just being nice so you’ll stop stealing his snacks.”

Fernando raised a brow. “Actually, I think she’s the only one allowed to take my snacks.”

You flopped into the seat next to Lance, stretching your legs out with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve walked more today than I did the entire off season.”

“You do realize you don’t have to do the grand tour every race weekend?” Lance asked.

“I do,” you said. “But it’s fun watching people spiral.”

Lance gave you a sideways look. “You mean watching Esteban and Mick follow you around like puppies.”

You gave him a smug smile. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

Fernando chuckled under his breath. “It’s something.”

You tilted your head toward him. “You know, you could learn a thing or two from them.”

He raised a brow. “About what?”

“About romance. Softness. Love.”

Lance groaned. “Please stop.”

“Imagine it,” you said, teasing. “Fernando Alonso… cuddling.”

“I am excellent at cuddling,” Fernando said, deadpan. “But I keep that side reserved for national emergencies and post race exhaustion.”

You burst out laughing, and even Lance cracked a smile despite his disgusted older brother persona.

“Go back to Haas,” he muttered. “They’re the only ones who encourage your delusions.”

You leaned over and bumped his shoulder affectionately. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

Fernando looked between the two of you with mock solemnity. “If she wasn’t your sister, I would be convinced she was dating half the grid.”

Lance froze. You choked on your laugh. Fernando just sipped his water and smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I—uh—what?” Lance asked, voice cracking slightly.

“Joking,” Fernando said, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed him. “Mostly.”

You stood, dusting off your Aston shirt. “Okay, that’s my cue. I have to go pretend I’m not in love with two drivers now.”

Lance covered his ears dramatically. “Too much. I’m not listening. Leave.”

Fernando gave you a wink. “Good luck. And tell Mick to stop giving me the suspicious eyes.”

“I make no promises.”

You blew Lance a kiss, saluted Fernando like a soldier, and slipped back out into the heat, your phone already buzzing with a message from Mick

Back to Merc yet?

This life was exhausting. But god, it was fun.

—

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of the bedsheets. The chaos of the race was long behind you — the media, the heat, the cameras. Esteban had changed into a hoodie, and Mick was stretched out across the bed with damp and flushed cheeks, hair still messy from the post-race shower. You were curled between them, legs tangled and head resting on Esteban’s chest, fingers trailing slow shapes over the fabric.

Esteban’s voice was softer now, quieter than usual, like he was finally letting the adrenaline fade. “You know… this was a good weekend.”

You looked up at him. “Even with the pit stop disaster?”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Mick laughed from the other side, nudging your knee with his. “You still pulled a P7. That’s not nothing.”

“Could’ve been P5,” Esteban mumbled.

You leaned up and kissed his jaw, gentle and warm. “You were brilliant. I’m proud of you.”

“So proud,” Mick echoed, his hand finding yours across the sheets. “And so tired. I’m not moving until breakfast.”

You and Esteban exchanged a glance — a tiny flash of anticipation that made you sit up just a little straighter.

“Well,” you said carefully, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. “You might want to get some extra sleep.”

“Why?” Esteban asked suspiciously.

You grinned. Mick propped himself up on his elbow, eyes gleaming. “Because tomorrow… we’re taking you to Universal.”

Esteban blinked. “Wait. What?”

“For your birthday,” you added, grinning wider. “We made a plan. Park passes. Early access. Express line. The whole thing.”

“You said you didn’t want to do anything,” Mick said, “so we decided to ignore that.”

“Because you always say that,” you teased, “and then you get pouty when we don’t do anything.”

Esteban stared at both of you, mouth slightly open. “You—actually—?”

“We’re waking you up at 7 a.m.,” Mick said, deadpan. “And I’m making you wear a hat with Mickey ears.”

“That’s the wrong park,” Esteban muttered.

“Details,” Mick shrugged.

Esteban was quiet for a moment, like he didn’t quite know how to process it. Then, softly—“You guys did this for me?”

You leaned in and kissed him, forehead pressed to his. “Of course we did. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a day off. A real one. With rollercoasters and butterbeer and cheesy photos.”

Esteban let out a shaky breath, pulling both of you into his arms like he didn’t want to let go. “You’re going to make me cry.”

Mick tucked in closer, pressing his face into Esteban’s shoulder. “We’ll allow one tear. Any more and we call you overdramatic and bully you.”

You both laughed, and for a long moment, the room was just full of warmth — tangled limbs, whispered promises, and the kind of love that felt like magic.

“Universal, huh?” Esteban whispered finally, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Yep,” you said. “And I already reserved us a table at the Three Broomsticks.”

Esteban smiled, his cheeks pink. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Mick kissed the side of his neck. “We’re ridiculous about you.”

—

yn_stroll has added two posts to her story!

seen by lance_stroll, lando, mickschumacher and 2,575,00 others.

—

You should have known the second Esteban sprinted toward the entrance of Jurassic Park — with a grin brighter than the Florida sun and zero hesitation — that you were in for chaos.

“He is gonna run over children,” Mick muttered beside you, already trying to keep pace as Esteban skipped toward the River Adventure ride entrance.

“It’s his birthday,” you said through a laugh, clutching your butterbeer in one hand and Esteban’s fallen sunglasses in the other. “Let him live.”

“He might live,” Mick said. “We might not.”

Esteban turned around, walking backwards, arms out like a showman. “YOU GUYS. DINOSAURS. I’VE BEEN WAITING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS.”

“You literally have a super license and you’re more excited about animatronic dinosaurs,” Mick deadpanned.

Esteban just blew him a kiss and kept walking. Within 20 minutes, the three of you were seated in the second row of the log boat. Esteban had insisted on sitting in front “for maximum splash potential,” Mick was muttering something to himself and you had a bad feeling in your stomach that only got worse as the ride climbed higher and higher.

“Why is it so dark in here?” Mick whispered. “Is that a real drop or—?”

Esteban turned around, eyes wide with manic glee. “GET READY!”

“Oh no,” you muttered.

SPLASH. It was not a gentle drop. Mick screamed like a Victorian child seeing a ghost. You screamed too — mostly from laughing. Esteban had both arms up, completely soaked and thrilled When the ride ended, your tank top was clinging to your skin, Mick looked like a drowned cat, and Esteban? Smug. Absolutely smug.

“That was AMAZING,” he shouted, shaking his wet hair like a golden retriever.

“I hate you,” Mick said, water dripping off his eyelashes.

“You love me,” Esteban said sweetly, draping a soaked arm around him.

You handed Mick a towel from your backpack because someone in this relationship is a planner, and he blinked at you.

“You’re a goddess,” he murmured, wrapping it around his shoulders like a robe.

You giggled, and Esteban tugged you into a hug, still damp, still beaming. “Thank you for this,” he whispered into your hair. “It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

You leaned back, kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s not over yet. We still have VelociCoaster.”

Mick audibly groaned. “I didn’t survive a dino ambush just to die on a rollercoaster.”

Esteban grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You might die. But you’ll do it screaming.”

Mick looked at you. “I change my mind. He’s ungrateful. Let’s return him to the wild.”

You smiled, wrapping an arm around each of them as you began to walk. “Too late. You’re both stuck with each other.”

And as Esteban dashed ahead again — soaking wet, smiling like a kid, shouting something about “DINOSAUR COOKIES!” — you and Mick just looked at each other and laughed.

He reached for your hand.

“We’re never topping this, are we?”

You shook your head. “Not a chance.”

—

You weren’t sure when exactly the regret set in. Maybe it was when the restraints locked in with a final clunk that sounded a little too final. Or maybe when Esteban turned to you, completely lit up, and whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out from happiness.”

Meanwhile, Mick looked like he was preparing for war.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered. “You know how many Gs this ride pulls? I looked it up. We’re about to get launched into space.”

You reached over and took his hand — mostly to calm him, partly to keep him from unbuckling himself and sprinting off the ride. “Too late now, astronaut.”

The ride operator gave the thumbs up. The VelociCoaster hissed.

Esteban’s eyes sparkled. “READY?!”

“No,” Mick and you said at the same time.

And then — launch.

Your screams were lost to the wind. The first launch hit 70 mph before your brain caught up. Esteban was laughing, hands up like a maniac, shouting something in French. Mick was next to you with both hands gripping the bar like it might save his soul.

“I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I—WHY IS IT UPSIDE DOWN—”

You were laughing, screaming, possibly crying — everything all at once. There was a brief moment of calm during the stall where everything slowed, weightless, beautiful. Then it dropped again.

“WHO BUILT THIS?!” Mick yelled. “I WANT TO TALK TO THE ENGINEER!”

Esteban, meanwhile, shouted— “I WANT TO KISS THE ENGINEER!”

The ride slowed, the restraints lifted, and the three of you sat there in stunned silence. Mick was pale, his hair wind-blown in every direction, blinking slowly like he’d just come back from battle. Esteban’s face was flushed, radiant, absolutely vibrating with joy. You sat between them, laughing so hard your chest hurt.

“That. Was. INSANE,” Esteban gasped, looking between the two of you. “I think I saw God.”

Mick turned to you with a blank stare. “I peed a little.”

Esteban nearly collapsed laughing. You doubled over with him, tears running down your cheeks.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Mick grumbled.

“I know you do,” Esteban beamed, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “And you just proved it.”

Mick smiled despite himself. You leaned your head against Esteban’s shoulder and reached over for Mick’s hand again, still breathless. And there, in the heart of a fake dinosaur jungle, high off adrenaline and barely holding it together, the three of you laughed until you couldn’t anymore. Just pure, ridiculous, chaotic love.

—

mickschumacher

liked by yn_stroll, estebanocon, olliebearman and 875,009 others.

mickschumacher : miami baybeeeeee

tagged : estebanocon and yn_stroll

—

view 72,552 other comments.

estebanocon : i rate this dump 11/10

liked by yn_stroll and mickschumacher

↳ mickschumacher : i rate you 11/10 for existing

liked by estebanocon

↳ yn_stroll : oh my god

lando : im just going to keep hitting on yn until someone cracks.

↳ lance_stroll : your skull will be cracking if you continue

olliebearman : this is a very boyfriend coded post

↳ mickschumacher : im too old to understand that. what?

↳ olliebearman : forget it

↳ olliebearman : to think you are only 5 years older than me is scary

liked by yn_stroll and estebanocon

—

gridtruthers

liked by lando, olliebearman and 5,001,009 likes.

gridtruthers: For you all I have created a list of examples of why I think Mick, Esteban and YN are dating. Example A): This picture of Mick and Esteban on a trip together that Esteban posted like it was the most casual thing in the world AND THEN tagged YN as photo credits.

Example B): THE WAY ESTE AND YN LOOK AT EACH OTHER IN THIS PIC. IT IS PURE LOVE. I AM STILL NOT OVER IT. YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE. they would die for each other and I would die for them.

Example C): MICK TOOK THIS PICTURE OF ESTE TAKING A PICTURE OF YN AND LOOK HOW PROUD ESTE LOOKS. OH MY FUCKING GOD. sick to my stomach.

Example D): The entire photo shoot for Esteban’s merch. Like they are touching and hugging in every picture. I don’t have much more to say. Go look at the pictures.

Example E): Ummmmm not much I can say. They are quite literally holding each other in front of their brother in law WHO IS SMILING FOR ONCE.

Example F): This tiktok that YN posted where she was doing an outfit of the day and Mick literally hugged her from behind and proceeded to pick her up and then kiss her cheek. SO CUTE.

Example G): That one time when Mick and YN were in the Merc garage watching the race and the camera turned to them and CAUGHT THEM LIKE THIS. HAND HOLDING AND MICK LOOKING AT HER LIKE THAT. obsessed.

Example H): This picture of them playing padel which really gives off gay lover vibes and YN was the one who posted it to begin with. No other comment necessary.

Example I): THEM LITERALLY HOLDING EACH OTHER LIKE THIS WALKING IN THE PADDOCK. AND THIS IS NOT THE ONLY TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED. IT HAS HAPPENED MANY TIMES.

anyways— thank you for listening to my ranting. hope I convinced you 🫶🏻

—

view 272,110 other comments.

username00 : i didn’t even finish the thread before i started SCREAMING. this is a thesis. a dissertation. it deserves a pulitzer.

username0 : “sick to my stomach” is the most accurate summary of my emotional state

username1 : NO BECAUSE ESTEBAN LOOKS AT HER LIKE SHE PUT THE STARS IN THE SKY. and mick looks at both of them like they’re made of gold. i’m sobbing.

username5 : we went from “estie bestie” to “estie boyfriend” real fast. i can’t breathe.

olliebearman : this might be the greatest investigation the internet has ever produced

liked by gridtruther and lando

↳ gridtruther : oliver what do you know?

↳ olliebearman : nothing? yeah i know nothing.

↳ username00 : LIARRRRR

username7 : i saw them in person once and they were glowing. esteban was holding yn’s phone, mick had her bag, she looked like royalty. i haven’t recovered.

yn_stroll : I-. i cannot say much other than i am impressed and you should be a private investigator.

liked by olliebearman and gridtruthers

↳ gridtruthers : omg hello queen. love you and your boyfriends

liked by yn_stroll

—

The morning started with a sleepy 6:15 AM pickup, and Esteban immediately complained.

“We’re too beautiful to be awake at this hour,” he grumbled, dramatically flopping into the backseat beside you, hoodie drawn up like a cloaked villain.

“You’re too dramatic,” Mick muttered, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

You, sandwiched between them with a tote bag full of snacks and a neck pillow Mick would end up using again, just smiled. “You both agreed to this.”

“I agreed under the influence of post race endorphins and love,” Esteban mumbled. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh hush, you’ll be happy once we are there.” You hummed, checking the time on your phone again.

Within 15 minutes, you three had arrived at the Miami airport. The three of you stuck out like sore thumbs, despite the hoodies and sunglasses. Esteban was sprawled on the couch in the lounge within five minutes, Mick was methodically organizing boarding passes and passports like a dad, and you were feeding them croissants from the snack counter.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at a family subtly whispering in your direction.

“Because we are,” Mick replied calmly, not looking up from his phone. “And they probably think I’m on a boys’ trip with Esteban and brought my assistant.”

“I will throw a pain au chocolat at you,” you warned.

Esteban perked up, mouth full. “Throw it at me instead. I’ll catch it.”

You ended up seated in the middle seat, between Esteban—who had immediately curled up with a blanket and fallen asleep on your shoulder—and Mick, who was flipping through the inflight entertainment catalog with a thoughtful look.

“I’m gonna watch The Grand Budapest Hotel,” he announced.

“That’s cute,” you replied, trying not to move too much so you wouldn’t wake Esteban. “Do you want snacks?”

“Not when I have you,” Mick replied smoothly.

You choked on your own breath. Esteban, eyes still closed, mumbled, “Stop flirting over me. I’m dreaming of goats.”

“…Goats?” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

“He watched that farm documentary last night before bed,” Mick whispered back. “He’s in too deep.”

Esteban, still not fully awake, added, “Oh my GOD! Sebastian has goats.”

By the time you landed, all three of you were in better moods. Esteban was fully awake and bouncing with excitement, Mick had bought overpriced chocolate from duty-free for Sebastian’s kids, and you were trying to wrangle the two of them into not attracting attention at customs.

Mick wheeled the suitcase. Esteban carried your bag. You tried to keep everyone from getting distracted by cows on the drive out.

“Do you think they’ll let us pet one?” Esteban asked dreamily.

“Maybe, if you behave,” you replied, laughing.

The roads curved through quiet hills and small villages, the mountains in the distance still dusted with snow. You could already feel your body relaxing.

The air was crisp. Still. The kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a blanket — a far cry from the usual roar of paddock chaos and back to back flights. The lake glimmered below the mountain, and birdsong drifted through the trees like a lullaby.

The gravel crunched under the wheels of the rental car as you turned down the winding, tree lined driveway, golden light filtering through the canopy. The forest gave way to a wide clearing, and there it was-Sebastian’s house. Stone walls, ivy climbing over the sides, smoke curling lazily from the chimney.

Esteban immediately rolled down the window and stuck his head out like a dog. “It’s exactly how I pictured it,” he whispered reverently.

Mick parked the car and let out a soft sigh. “I already feel healthier just being near this man’s trees.”

You stretched your arms as you stepped out, the mountain air crisp and full of birdsong and pine. “Do you think he’ll make us do garden chores before we’re allowed to enter?”

“I brought gloves just in case,” Esteban replied, dead serious.

Before you could knock, the front door swung open — and there he was. Sebastian stood barefoot on the stone porch, hair longer than the last time you’d seen him, wearing a forest green flannel and holding a mug of tea.

“About time,” he said, smiling wide. “You brought my favorite chaos.”

“Nice to see you too,” Mick grinned, pulling him into a hug.

Seb looked at Esteban, who was already beaming. “Did you cry when you saw the cows?”

“I teared up, thank you very much,” Esteban replied with full sincerity, handing over a paper wrapped chocolate bar. “For the kids.”

Seb took it with a soft chuckle and turned to you. “And how’s our resident wrangler of F1 men?”

“Tired,” you said, dropping your head against his shoulder dramatically. “But better now.”

He hugged you tightly, swaying a little. “I’m so glad you are here.”

Shoes were left at the door. Backpacks dropped. Within minutes, all four of you were gathered in the warm kitchen, surrounded by drying herbs, mismatched mugs, and the smell of bread fresh from the oven. Mick had taken it upon himself to slice it. Badly. There were crumbs everywhere. Esteban was already at the kitchen window, whispering to a chicken who had wandered too close to the house.

“She’s making eye contact with me,” he whispered. “I think she trusts me.”

“You say that about everyone,” you called from the table, stealing a corner of the bread.

Seb leaned over to you, conspiratorial. “I told the kids they have to wait until after dinner to ambush you.”

“Oh god,” you groaned with a smile. “Are they still obsessed with Esteban’s accent?”

“They think he’s from a Disney movie.”

Mick took a sip of tea and raised a brow. “And me?”

“You’re their soft Uncle Mick that makes good jam.”

Esteban turned dramatically from the window. “And YN?”

Seb grinned. “Their queen.”

Seb had set up your room in the guest loft — a massive window looking out over the hills, soft quilts folded at the foot of the bed, a little vase of wildflowers on the side table.

“Did he pick those himself?” you whispered to Mick.

“Bet he raised them from seed,” Mick whispered back.

Esteban walked in behind you and flopped down dramatically onto the bed. “I’m never leaving.”

You all collapsed beside him, tangled in a mess of limbs and laughter, the sunlight spilling across the hardwood floor. For a while, you just laid there. Quiet. Breathing. Together.

“I missed this,” you said softly.

“We needed this,” Mick agreed.

Esteban just hummed and pulled you both closer. Downstairs, you could hear Sebastian singing softly in German as he stirred something in a pot. The scent of onions and thyme filled the air. A dog barked in the distance. Someone was chopping wood outside. Peace. Real peace. And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you didn’t feel like you had to be anywhere but here.

Sebastian lured us down to the dining room once dinner was finished. We sat. The table was long, wooden, slightly worn from years of use — exactly as it should be.

Candles flickered in mismatched holders. The scent of rosemary, roasted garlic, and something rich and buttery hung in the air. One of Sebastian’s kids had placed tiny hand-drawn name tags at each setting. Yours had flowers. Mick’s had a little helmet. Esteban’s had a stick figure in a cape.

Sebastian just grinned when Esteban held it up, beaming. “I’ve been knighted.”

“More like knighted in chaos,” you replied, nudging him with your elbow as you took your seat beside him.

Sebastian’s youngest was curled into Mick’s side, holding a toy dinosaur and whispering something about “secret garden paths,” while his eldest very seriously told you about the “composting experiments” they were doing with their dad.

You smiled through it all, eyes flicking occasionally to Esteban, who was already deeply engaged in a debate about whether ladybugs have feelings. Mick kept sneaking pieces of bread to the kids when Sebastian wasn’t looking. It was simple. But perfect.

The sun dipped lower, casting the room in amber. One of the kids fell asleep mid sentence on the couch. The other was curled into a blanket beside the fire, eyes fluttering shut.

The grown-ups had moved outside to the back patio, wine in hand, feet up, soft music playing in the background. The stars were just beginning to peek out over the trees.

Esteban was telling a story from his karting days, hands animated, voice lilting with nostalgia. Mick listened intently, leaning back into your side, thumb tracing lazy circles on your knee beneath the blanket you shared.

You laughed softly when Esteban mimicked someone’s voice, your head dropping to Mick’s shoulder. Sebastian just smiled at the scene.

“You three are good together,” he said quietly.

You looked up, caught off guard.

He took a sip of wine. “You bring each other peace. In a world like that? That’s rare.”

You felt the weight of those words settle into your chest — gentle, grounding. Mick squeezed your hand. Esteban reached across the table and lightly brushed your wrist with his fingers, a silent confirmation.

“Thank you for having us,” you whispered.

“Always,” Sebastian said. “Come home whenever you need to breathe again.”

—

sebastianvettel added a post to his story!

seen by lewishamilton, mickschumacher, yn_stroll and 3,010,007 others.

mickschumacher : seb did you mean to post this?

↳ sebastianvettel : Huh? What did I post?

↳ sebastianvettel : Fuck. No. I meant to favorite it. Taking it down.

↳ mickschumacher : i love you so much old man

—

sebastianvettel has deleted this story!

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : SEBASTIAN VETTEL ACCIDENTALLY HARD LAUNCHED MICK SCHUMACHER & YN STROLL??!?! he posted a picture on his IG story of what looked like mick holding yn tightly—definitely mid-kiss—and deleted it within minutes. we repeat-within. minutes. we are NOT okay. 😭😭

—

You’d arrived at the paddock like you always did — coffee in one hand, team pass around your neck, sunglasses hiding the storm of nerves bubbling beneath your calm exterior. Because no matter how normal you tried to be, everyone was whispering about Sebastian Vettel’s cursed Instagram story that had been posted, screenshotted, and dissected like gospel by the entire fandom. But you? You carried on. You moved between the Mercedes and Haas garages like you always did, checked in on Lance, gave Esteban a forehead kiss for luck, ruffled Ollie’s hair, and sat on Mick’s lap in the hospitality suite.

And then came the call.

A driver was ruled out at the last minute. Medical, something sudden, and before you even had time to blink, Toto was waving Mick over with urgency.

“We need you. Suit up.”

Mick’s eyes flashed wide — stunned, then laser focused. Esteban found you instantly as Mick ran off to get changed, grabbing your hand and tugging you aside.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked, chest tight. “I don’t know.”

He smiled gently, thumb brushing your knuckles. “He’s been waiting for this moment for years. You have to believe in him now.”

And you did. You really, really did.

It was like something out of a movie. Mick, the late substitute, drove like a man on fire — precise, relentless, graceful in every overtake. Esteban held his own, smooth and strategic, the two of them ending the race in P2 and P3, side by side. You watched from the Mercedes pit wall, fists clenched to your chest, tears slipping down your cheeks without permission. The minute the checkered flag dropped, you were already running.

The three drivers lifted their trophies. Champagne flew. And before anyone could stop him, Esteban leaned into Mick, laughing, gripping his shoulder—

“Do it,” he said, eyes glittering.

Mick didn’t hesitate.

He looked straight at you, in your team pass and sunglasses and messy ponytail, standing near the front of the barriers with your hands over your heart—and he jumped down from the podium.

You barely had time to process it before he was grabbing you by the waist, lifting you off the ground, and kissing you full on in front of half the grid and every camera in the world.

Gasps. Shouts. A thousand camera shutters. The roar of fans exploding.

When he pulled back, grinning, Esteban had jumped down too, wrapping his arms around the two of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Three of you. No more secrets. No more whispering in hotel rooms or deleting posts.

Esteban kissed your cheek, then Mick’s. Mick rested his forehead against yours.

“I guess that’s our launch,” you whispered, breathless.

“You were always worth the headline,” Esteban murmured.

And Mick, beaming with his trophy still in one hand, just nodded.

“Let them talk.”

—

yn_stroll

liked by estebanocon, mickschumacher, lance_stroll and 7,700,000 others.

yn_stroll : secret is out...thanks to my men and sv5 who does not understand how to use an iPhone;)

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yuh13lo · 2 days ago

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Couldn’t sleep | chris sturniolo

It was nearly 2AM when she gave up on pretending sleep might come. Chris had left the house hours ago with Nick and Matt for some spontaneous late-night filming idea, and though she knew he’d be back soon, her body wouldn’t settle. She tossed once more under the weight of his comforter before sighing, stretching her limbs, and standing with purpose.

The bedroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge down the hall. The air still smelled like his cologne—warm, woodsy, familiar—and his hoodie hung over the desk chair like an invitation. She tugged it on, sleeves slipping over her hands, and glanced around the room.

It wasn’t messy, exactly. Just… Chris-style cluttered. Clothes he “was definitely going to wear again,” a pile of empty Gatorade bottles on his nightstand, and his sneakers lined up just a little too chaotically under his dresser. Her fingers twitched.

“If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something,” she mumbled, brushing hair behind her ear.

She started with the desk—stacking notebooks, rearranging the pile of polaroids he kept of her and his brothers, wiping down the surface with a tissue and a splash of water. Then she moved to the dresser, folding a hoodie, fixing the way his hat hung off the side, finally tackling the nightstand, which was an ode to midnight snacks and half-finished waters.

By the time she tucked the last sock into his drawer, she was smiling to herself. Something about the routine of tidying his space felt grounding. Like leaving little “I love you” notes he might not notice at first, but would feel anyway.

The door creaked behind her and she turned around, caught red-handed mid-reach toward a hoodie on the back of the door.

“Hey,” Chris’s voice was scratchy from laughing too much. His curls were wild from the wind, cheeks flushed, and he blinked in surprise when he saw her. “What are you—”

But before she could even explain, he crossed the room in three long strides and tackled her gently onto the bed, making her shriek-laugh as they landed in a tangle of limbs and flannel.

“Christopher!” she giggled, squirming under his weight as he buried his face in her neck.

“I knew you couldn’t sleep without me,” he muttered, voice muffled and tired. “But cleaning my room? You really are in love with me.”

She laughed again, breathless this time, arms wrapping around his shoulders instinctively as he melted into her.

“You left it a disaster zone,” she teased, fingers carding through his hair.

“It was organized chaos.”

“It was a war zone.”

Chris grinned against her collarbone. “And now it’s a war zone that smells like lavender and looks suspiciously folded. I love it.”

They laid like that for a while, his weight pressed comfortably over her, her fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder through his hoodie. The room was dark again, quiet but peaceful this time.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at her, eyes soft and sleepy.

“You really couldn’t sleep without me?”

“Nope,” she whispered, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. “But I feel better now.”

Chris nuzzled back into her chest with a content sigh.

“Me too.”

And in his freshly cleaned room, wrapped in his arms, she finally fell asleep.

Taglist @xsturnkay @sturnsobsessed21 @bugs-tags @edu4rd0ss @ellsxxoxo @nessaisabelartemas333 @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #madison beer #sturniolo smut #madi filipowicz #matthew sturniolo

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loricciardo · 3 days ago

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YOU'RE SO VAIN, a Max Verstappen story.

pairing. Max Verstappen x original female character.

taglist. want to join my taglist for this story? comment or shoot me an ask.

synopsis. Natalie Schumacher is fast, fearless, and absolutely sick of being told she’s lucky. Being the daughter of a legend, she’s been branded “Formula 1 royalty” since she first entered this world as a small newborn.

Enter: Max Emilian Verstappen. Two-time world champion. A God on the track and a mess of contradictions off it--infuriating, electrifying, and raw in a way she just can't shake. At once, his rootlessness upends her routine. And, unfortunately, he is very loud about the fact that he thinks she doesn’t belong.

Max can’t stand Natalie. Not because she’s slow.. she isn’t. And it’s not because she’s soft. If anything, she races like a live wire. No, Max Verstappen hates Natalie Schumacher because she walks around with everything he never had: friends who love her before the podiums, a brother who’d throw punches in her defense, a family whose shadow feels like a blanket of protection, not pressure. She’s surrounded by warmth. But Max? He grew up in an icy cold tundra.

What do you do with feelings you didn’t plan for? What happens when the person you were raised to beat is the one who finally sees you for who you are?

status. on-going, i will try to update every tuesday, however i am writing this as i post, so updates may be slow as i want to properly depict the story i have in my head.

tags. female original character, misogyny and toxic masculinity (F1-typical), a lot of cussing, depictions of mental health issues (post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, bipolar, anxiety), depictions of childhood trauma, slow burn, NSFW themes (eventual smut? who knows..), references to past abuse and assault (physical, mental, sexual in reference to children and adults), abusive relationship in a romantic setting, mentions of michael schumacher’s accident, Max and Natalie are dicks!

Chapters will be marked accordingly. Please read before proceeding and exercise appropriate reader discretion.

DISCLAIMER. This is a work of fanfiction. I obviously do not own FORMULA 1 or any other forms of intellectual property. I do, however, own the original characters of this novel (Natalie Schumacher), as well as the plot lines and the writing itself. Some aspects are semi-based on true events following the 2023 season, but this is overwhelmingly a work of pure fanfiction and is far detached from reality. Additionally, there will be comments made for the sake of this fanfiction that I don’t believe the drivers would ever make. Do not let this story reflect your image on them. Please do not copy, redistribute, plagiarize, or translate this work under any circumstances.

• • • PLEASE DON'T BE A SILENT READER! I love seeing feedback and reactions. It really motivates me as a writer! I hope you enjoy 'You're So Vain.' Thank you for taking the time to read.

: ̗̀➛ 01. so this is how it starts?

: ̗̀➛ 02. too sweet.

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sad-girl-hours23 · 3 days ago

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Tagged by @ambernotember for tidbit tuesday. Thank you darling <3

I still don't quite know what this is...I'm making it up as I go along in bits and pieces. So this is unedited. And sometime after this snippet. I guess I should eventually come up with a working title for this.

Traffic is surprisingly light on the way to the farmers market and the weather is cool enough that Tommy's driving with the windows down. Buck looks over at Tommy—just as he has every few miles of the trip—and watches the wind push back his curls. If Tommy's noticed, he hasn't let on.

Buck looks away and doesn't bother trying to suppress his smile or the warmth that had been steadily growing in him since this morning. It was a feeling that he didn't quite dare yet to call hope. He'd woken up feeling more rested than he had in months, Tommy had presented him with coffee and pastries from their favorite cafe down the street, and then he'd asked Buck if he wanted to run errands with him.

The farmers market is just up ahead when "Dancing in the Dark" comes on the radio. All at once Buck is 26 and singing along to Bruce Springsteen with his captain in a crowded arena. He had no idea what Bobby would come to mean to him. He almost envied that Buck. Before his thoughts can spiral, he moves to change the radio station, only to find himself anchored in place. "Uh, Tommy?"

Tommy keeps his eyes on the road, but he leans toward Buck as he says, "hmm?"

"We're holding hands."

A faint smile lifts the corner of Tommy's mouth. "Yes we are."

"Why are we holding hands?"

Tommy isn't even looking at Buck, but he still feels the full effect of his cunty eyebrow raise. "You tell me."

Buck flushes at the implication—he must have grabbed Tommy's hand on instinct, probably before they even left the driveway. He doesn't know how he didn't notice before. He untangles their fingers and feels hollow for it—without the weight and warmth of Tommy's hand in his, it's like he could just float away. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Tommy pulls into a parking spot and turns off the truck. He looks at Buck with a soft smile and shrugs. "I just thought you needed someone to hold your hand."

The gentleness in Tommy's voice does nothing to help the lump forming in Buck's throat. He knows without a doubt, he could reach for Tommy's hand again and be met halfway. Tommy would probably hold his hand while they walked through the market if Buck asked.

And he just doesn't know what to do with that.

Open tag if it's still Tuesday where you are ^_^ or I guess for WIP Wednesday <3

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #911 #bucktommy fic

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ptej1980 · 1 day ago

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Perception…If you know you know

It has been interesting to watch the different reactions to IG stories and posts over the last week. There is 4 groups of people that I can gather.

1. Lukola strong- Those who are in the know, have done their research do not fall for the smoke and mirrors or misdirection, and have been in it for the long haul. They are critical thinkers, and understand the bigger picture

2. The easily swayed, the jumpers, the unsure and flip floppers that go from ship to ship anytime new story posts come out. Regardless of how little any of it makes sense, no matter how many examples of intimacy and connection Lukola have they have no confidence in what they see or have seen. The drama and trolling seems to be something they enjoy.

3. The Sub fandom zombies who are just regurgitating what they are fed by SM and tabloid trash. They are the current discord zombies who are currently thirsting over pictures of an underage JD 🤮 it is disturbing and creepy, stalker like behaviour led by the red menace.

4. The oblivious- those who have no idea what is going on and do not care. I sometimes envy them. Because when Lukola eventually launch they will enjoy it with out having gone through all the drama . If you look at either social media pages of Nic and Luke as someone who is oblivious you would definitely see a connection between the two of them, and no one else.

I am 💯 sure that if you are reading this you are a number 1 or 4. I hope I haven’t offended anyone but I think at this point it is laughable 🤭

We get pics of Nic and Luke in Adelaide ( yes Lukola FBI I believe in their skills and analysis). Which is then followed up with a chaos week group of stories by Nic.

Her rainbow bestie in Adelaide posting a similar hotel, yep possible same hotel, same room yeh nah…like every thing vague and unconfirmed except his love for his co stars in WIFLFAG.

With 🐜, well she has nothing of interest except 4 pics of the same dress in an empty luxury hotel. The funny thing is the plastic cup on the ground. If she was actually a guest I am guessing the “luxury hotel “ could at least get her a real glass. No sign of any people there of significance, no tags. A shadow of someone who was probably her dad. Nothing. I don’t have to say but if she was actually in a relationship with someone you would think that she could post 1 pic, story, anything but…..no.

I feel like most of us do think that we might be coming to endgame which is really exciting. After Nics stories the stroller pic, Luke’s IG clean out, all the signs are there. I don’t think it is going to be a smooth ride but we have weathered every storm and always come out on top. Ring Truthers unite, until the reveal.

#don’t believe everything you see #if you don’t like it don’t read it.#adjacents out #ring truthers unite #until the reveal

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sentient-stove · 3 days ago

Text

I mean, tags have always been for personal blog organization and filtering (even if the site breaks them half the time)

If someone wants to tag their dcxdp post with Danny phantom tag, then it’s well within their logic to do so. While I can understand the frustration of seeing a crossover boom in a tag you like, it’s not exactly fair to point a curled finger at the crossover tags like “well THEY can’t be here” when they’re also just trying to participate in fandom.

Does it make browsing annoying to block variations of dcxdp? Yes, and I can see why. But we also have to understand that the dp fandom is one of the site’s older ones, and just like everything else, will go through cycles of popularity in regards to other media and crossovers. Having another tag for #dponly isn’t saying that you can’t use the Danny Phantom tag anymore, it’s just another thing that solely dp posters can use if they want, for ease of organization.

And give it six months, dcxdp is already not at the same peak popularity it was a year ago, eventually the cycle will do what it does, and people will cycle to different crossovers, media, characters.

This would be used in addition to the danny phantom tag, turning it into a true umbrella tag for everything related to Danny Phantom, while having a few major sub-tags for people to find exactly what they want.

---

After some more discussion with members of the fandom in the notes of my poll asking about a community and elsewhere, it seems like the better option for everyone might actually be a new tag, so I'm making a new poll here!

Some answers to questions I think people might have are below the readmore:

Q: Why are all of these only one word?

A: For the same reason the dpxdc tag is only one word! Tumblr's tagging implementation is Not Good. Tags with spaces don't play well with it, and especially don't play well with blocked tags. If someone wants to block non-crossover Danny Phantom content, we want to make it as painless as possible for them.

Q: What issues were raised around communities?

A: A few! To name some of them:

Limited interactions with posts: Communities only let you react with emoji and leave comments on posts reblogged into them. Not great, if we want to have long reblog chains riffing on one another

Original Posters aren't notified if someone else reblogs their post into a community, even if it's public. So if someone reblogged your post into the community for you, you wouldn't know about it -- or know to look for people interacting with it.

Communities have mods, and therefore would need trustworthy, engaged mods to make it work. Over a short time frame, we could probably manage it! But over a longer one, a community for an entire fandom would probably have moderator drama. That could lead to fracturing, or people leaving specifically because they don't like the mods, etc. A tag is a lot less active maintenance.

A few people also expressed a general dislike for the feature, even if they were willing to move to one. This seems like a much smaller change that will let those people stay away from a feature they don't like, while interacting with the content they do.

Q: What about less-common crossovers? Won't those get excluded from this tag?

A: They will. I'm asking about this poll first because I figured getting the community to make a decision about the other crossovers would be easier if we'd already decided on the non-crossovers.

The current idea is to move those to their own tag as well, so they can get dedicated attention from the crossover enthusiasts who love them. One of the people I talked to about this runs the niche-dp-crossovers blog, so it's on the radar. If you have concerns or suggestions about that, the notes on this post is as good a place as any to suggest them!

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dponly #fanfic

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redvexillum · 1 day ago

Text

Thirteenth Kiss: Captivate III

A/N: Listen. He's ... doing his best.

Tags/Warning: f!reader, eventual smut, fake relationship, Lucifer is touch-starved

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

“You know…” you murmured, your voice light with teasing as your knee sank into the plush surface of the king-sized bed. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, creaking faintly in the quiet room. You dropped to your hands with a feline grace, brows raised as you looked up at him from your position. “You have hundreds of rooms in this absurdly massive house. We don’t have to do this.”

Lucifer flinched, clutching the blanket like it was a lifeline, dragging it up over his bare chest with almost comical urgency. His knuckles were pale from the strain of his grip. “Nope,” he said too quickly, voice thin. He drew in a breath, held it for a beat too long, then added, “I don’t mind. This is… better. For comfort. Mutual comfort.” He tried to smile, but it barely touched his lips and didn’t even graze his eyes, which flickered with thinly veiled anxiety.

You pressed your fingers to your lips to stifle a laugh, the warmth of it slipping between your fingers as you giggled. The sound felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The absurdity of the situation still hadn’t worn off—Lucifer Morningstar, powerful and terrifying, squirming beneath a blanket like a nervous teenager on his first sleepover.

After finalizing the odd little transaction that had landed you here—as his pretend girlfriend—you’d spent the evening talking about literally everything. Favourite colours, trivial pet peeves, the kind of conversation meant to fill silences but never scratch below the surface. There had been an invisible line between you both, a careful distance you didn’t dare cross.

Except when it came to Charlie. His tone shifted every time her name crossed his lips: warm, wistful, almost reverent. You could practically see the glint in his eyes when he talked about her.

You noticed the glimmer of gold on his left hand. A wedding band, simple and elegant.

Unmoving.

Untouched.

And when the night stretched long enough to make the shadows yawn across the walls, he insisted you stay with him. Not to share a bed in the way others might assume, but simply to lay beside him.

To exist beside him.

You leaned in now, bracing your hands on the mattress, smirking as you looked into his wide, panicked eyes. “So… are we going to cuddle?”

His reaction was instant and violent. He choked on a breath, coughing like he’d inhaled fire, his face a shade of gold you hadn't seen on him before.

You burst into laughter, loud and uninhibited. “I’m just kidding, Luci,” you said playfully. Then you paused, tilting your head as you studied him. “Can I call you that?”

He rubbed his chest, trying to recover, eyes still darting anywhere but at you. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sure, that’s fine,” he said in a voice that had pitched up to something almost… boyish.

You glanced down at yourself—at the simple white spaghetti-strap tank clinging softly to your skin, and the pale pink shorts cinched at your waist with a satiny bow. The heart-shaped curve of the fabric accentuated the smoothness of your thighs.

You looked back up at Lucifer.

And smiled.

How cute, you mused, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a smile as you caught the telltale flush blooming across Lucifer’s ears. You laughed quietly to yourself, warmth settling in your chest. It was moments like this that made it hard to remember he was supposed to be your client, not your… well, not anything else.

You slipped beneath the heavy blanket, the fabric cool against your skin before your body heat gradually softened it. The bed was enormous—absurdly so. You could stretch your arms out in every direction and still not reach the edge. It made your usual mattress feel like a child’s cot in comparison.

“Must be nice,” you murmured absently, eyes drifting upward as your head hit the plush pillow, “to sleep on a bed this big every night.”

Your gaze wandered over the canopy above you, where rich royal-purple drapery hung in soft folds from the carved wooden posts that framed the bed. Ornate and regal. The kind of thing you’d only seen in period dramas or overly indulgent furniture catalogues. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Perhaps, old paper? Ink? Him?

The silence stretched for a moment, interrupted only by the soft rustling of sheets. You turned your head slightly and caught sight of Lucifer lying stiffly on his back, his gaze also fixed on the ceiling. The space between you could easily fit another person. He hadn’t moved any closer, not that you expected him to.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something brittle. “It’s… a bit too big, though.” He let out a half-laugh, small and self-conscious, like he wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or a confession.

Then, almost too quickly, he shifted gears. “Anyway! We should get some shut-eye. Big plans tomorrow!” His voice lifted with artificial cheer, the kind that made your heart ache a little. He rolled onto his side, facing away from you, shoulders pulled tight and defensive. “Good night!” he added brightly, as if the words could mask the sudden drop in energy.

You stared at his back for a moment. He’d put even more space between you, and not just physically. The bed felt colder somehow—emptier—despite how large it already was.

You blinked slowly. Once. Then again.

You exhaled quietly and turned onto your side, facing away from him as well. “Good night,” you whispered, your voice barely above the hush of the room.

You closed your eyes, trying to coax your body into sleep even as your mind wandered. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the performance. Only three days left to convince Charlie that you’d been her father’s secret lover for years. Just three days to make her believe a story that wasn’t real.

You could do it.

You were a professional, after all.

Lucifer lay curled on his side, spine curved inward like a crescent moon, sheets bunched awkwardly around his waist as he tucked his knees closer to his chest. The shadows in the room were gentle now, the light from Heaven's gate barely managing to filter through the heavy drapery, painting pale streaks across the canopy above. But the quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was loud in that aching, suffocating kind of way that only settled in when you were pretending not to feel.

He regretted asking you to sleep beside him.

The words he used earlier—to foster connection, to build intimacy, to sell the story faster—felt hollow now, echoing in his chest like a lie he had told too many times. He could still see the look on your face when he’d said it: one brow lifted, your lips twitching with disbelief. You hadn’t bought it. Not really. But you’d smiled anyway and agreed.

That smile, it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He shifted, and the cold brush of metal against his skin made him flinch. The gold band, long forgotten on his finger during the day, now felt heavier than ever. It nudged his finger like a whisper of the past, a quiet reminder.

A ghost.

How long had it been since someone had shared this bed with him? Truly shared it? Not as a guest, not for appearances, but in the sacred, unspoken way people once did when love wasn’t so far away?

There was a time—long ago—when this very bed had felt small. When Lilith would curl into his side, her laughter still ringing in his ears while their tiny Charlie scrambled between them, limbs flailing, giggling wildly. They’d all collapse into a warm, tangled heap of breath and blankets and soft goodnights.

Back then, the edges of the mattress had seemed to close in around them like an embrace.

But now…?

He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, the scent of old memories clinging to the silk. He hadn’t been able to get rid of the bed. Too much of him was buried in it. Too many pieces he couldn’t face. The mattress sagged in familiar places—echoes of bodies that once filled it.

Now, the vastness of it mocked him. A monument to emptiness. The cold side of the bed always stayed cold.

It was too big.

Far too big.

For one person.

And yet… you were here. Just a few feet away, your breathing soft and steady. He hadn’t looked at you—not since he turned his back, like a coward—but he could feel your presence. Quiet. Patient. Kind, even when you didn’t need to be.

He had you. For now, at least.

But did that make him feel less alone?

He wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that the warmth on the other side of the bed wasn’t just from the blankets.

And that terrified him.

The loneliness clung to him like a second skin. Always persistent, always suffocating. No matter how many layers of silk, status, or charm he wrapped around himself, it always found a way in. It gnawed at the edges of his soul, slow and constant, like ocean waves eroding stone.

There was regret, too. Small, flickering embers glowing weakly in the pit of his chest. Not enough to ignite, but enough to burn. If he had just been honest with Charlie from the beginning, if he had faced her questions and her pain instead of hiding behind this elaborate farce… none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t be here. This wouldn’t be happening.

But…

When was the last time someone had asked him about him? About his memories, his joys, his griefs, without judgment or agenda? He had grown so accustomed to performing, to manipulating conversations and reading sinners like open books. He knew the signs of false interest. The glazed eyes. The vacant nods. The polite smiles stretched too thin.

But with you… there had been none of that.

You listened. You heard him.

And under the pretense of getting to know each other, for the sake of the illusion, of course, he realized he'd spoken more about himself in one evening than he had in years. Decades, maybe. He hadn’t even thought to ask you much of anything. The realization sat heavy in his chest.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, clutching the thought like a vow. Tomorrow I’ll ask. I’ll listen. I’ll see who you are—really are.

A soft sigh broke the stillness, followed by the gentle rustle of the sheets.

He startled, breath catching, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.

Carefully, slowly, he turned.

You were sleeping peacefully.

Draped in those pastel pajamas that clung softly to your form, you seemed to glow in the night's light, every detail sharpened by the darkness surrounding you. Your lips held a faint curve, as though smiling in some distant dream. You looked… serene. Open. Vulnerable in the quietest, most sacred way.

His eyes lingered on your hand resting between the two of you, the same hand that had cradled his earlier with a gentleness he hadn’t expected. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, warm and firm and grounding.

His fingers twitched, aching with some unnamed desire to reach out again.

And yet, all he could feel was confusion.

It was the only emotion he could name in the whirlwind pressing against his chest.

Confused, because this was all supposed to be pretend. A fabrication. A game. A lie wrapped in soft smiles and false memories.

But if that were true… why did it hurt?

Why did he feel sorrow coiling beneath his ribs like smoke, thick, and aching?

Why did your presence bring both comfort and a sharp, unexpected grief?

Confused.

Confused… because in a bed built for two, where once he had been truly loved, he was lying next to a stranger.

And somehow… he didn't mind it.

“Wait—wait, wait,” you sputtered, shaking your head as you held a forkful of syrup-drenched waffle midair, your brows climbing in disbelief. “Back up. How did we meet again?”

The morning light poured through the velvet curtains in golden beams, warming the sprawling bed you still hadn’t gotten used to. And to your complete surprise, the day had started with breakfast in bed. From Lucifer Morningstar himself.

He had entered the room with an almost boyish pride, balancing a tray like a waiter at some five-star resort. The food looked absurdly good—five golden waffles stacked tall, each one glistening with amber-coloured syrup and topped with a perfectly square pat of butter melting at the centre like it belonged in a painting. A bowl of ripe strawberries and blueberries sat beside it, their scent sweet and fresh. Another plate held three thick-cut strips of bacon fried to a crisp perfection, and two sunny-side-up eggs with yolks like twin suns.

You couldn’t lie. It made your heart flutter just a bit. The effort. The attention. The ridiculousness.

But now, sitting up with pillows fluffed behind you and a tray balanced on your lap, you were trying to hold back laughter as Lucifer gave you the most serious look in the universe.

“We met at the Duck Gala,” he said without hesitation, tone grave and completely devoid of irony.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, the what?”

“The Duck Gala,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

You squinted at him, brow furrowing. “That’s… that’s not a real thing. That’s not a place. Is that even a sentence?”

Lucifer’s face lit up with delight. “I’m so glad you asked.”

And just like that, over the course of the next twenty minutes, as you nibbled your waffle and popped berries into your mouth, he launched into an elaborate explanation. It might’ve been insane if he hadn’t delivered it with such charismatic certainty.

Apparently, the Duck Gala was a prestigious, exclusive annual event held at Lucifer’s estate. An event he invented for no one but himself. According to him, it was a celebration of “the finest, most misunderstood creature in all of creation: the duck.” He claimed (deadpan, mind you) that he helped design the original duck alongside God, and to this day, he honoured that artistic achievement with a private black-tie gala.

“But you’ve never invited anyone?” you asked, mouth half full, trying not to laugh.

“Never,” he said proudly. “It’s very exclusive. So exclusive that only the ducks are aware.”

“And I’m supposed to tell Charlie,” you said slowly, “that her father, who’s never mentioned a single gala in his entire life, has an elite yearly event centred around ducks, where you invited no one… and just forgot to tell her about it?”

Lucifer picked up a strip of bacon, bit into it with an exaggerated crunch, and shrugged. “Exactly. Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

You stared at him.

He smiled with a flash of charm, then waggled his eyebrows. “Theatrics, darling. You have to sell the absurdity so well it becomes believable. Trust me.”

You looked back down at your plate, shaking your head as you cut another piece of waffle. Warm, fluffy, rich with syrup—it was delicious. But even the sweetness couldn’t distract you from the looming truth.

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath, “Charlie’s definitely not going to buy this shit.”

And yet, as he continued to babble about duck tuxedos and quacking orchestras, you found yourself laughing. Not fake, not forced. Real. Honest.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind the madness so much.

In the end, after plenty of gentle prodding—mostly on your part—you mutually agreed on a more believable story: you met through an online dating app.

Simple. Relatable. Closer to the truth.

And the closer you are to the truth, the easier it is to lie.

The only adjustment was the timeline. Instead of claiming it was yesterday’s whirlwind chance encounter, you decided you'd met two years ago. Long enough to build a history, short enough to make it plausible you’d kept it quiet.

Still, you didn’t miss it—the way Lucifer’s shoulders drooped, the small pout on his lips when you vetoed his precious Duck Gala origin story. The disappointment was faint, but present, and it tugged at you with a strange, unexpected ache.

Your words came before you could think twice. Careless at first. Reflexive, even.

“Well,” you said casually, licking a sticky trail of syrup from your thumb, “maybe this year, you should invite me to the Duck Gala.”

You met his gaze, offering a teasing grin. “Sounds like a fun event. Plus, if you’re the one catering, that alone makes it worth attending.”

His expression shifted like sunrise breaking over a bleak horizon.

His eyes lit up, warm, almost childlike in their brightness. And his smile curved with real, radiant joy.

Cute.

That was all you told yourself.

Just cute.

You weren’t here to feel anything. This was just a job. An arrangement. But that didn’t stop something soft from blooming in your chest, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

You told yourself you just wanted to lift his spirits. After all, in Hell, it was rare to find someone like Lucifer. Most hellspawns were cruel, bitter, hardened by their damnation. But him? He was… different. Softer around the edges than he’d probably like to admit.

And if you’d met him in the human world, back when you were still someone else, someone you weren’t proud of, you might’ve taken advantage of that softness. Manipulated it. Used it. Left him broken and empty, like so many others.

That thought hit you hard. Bitter and uninvited.

A sharp, sour taste coated your tongue, stealing away the sweetness of the waffle. An old memory, unwanted and unwelcome, nudged its way into your mind. A shadow of your past self, cruel, and cold and selfish.

Your eyes drifted downward to the tray he had brought you this morning. The breakfast he’d made with surprising care.

You felt the shift before you heard his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

The softness in his tone startled you. It wasn’t prying, just concerned. And that only worsened it.

You blinked rapidly, pushing back the tendrils of memory like sweeping dust beneath a rug. You refused to let them take root. Not here. Not now.

A breath. Then a bright, airy laugh.

“Oh, nothing,” you said, reaching for a piece of waffle and stuffing it into your mouth like a chipmunk hiding from its own thoughts. “Just picturing what a Duck Gala would actually look like!”

You chewed dramatically. “Mmm—yum! Ten outta ten, Luci.”

He chuckled, eyes lingering on you with a quiet kind of curiosity. But he didn’t press further.

And you were grateful for that.

You glanced at him again, your heart quieter now, your thoughts calmer.

Today, tomorrow, and the days that followed—however long this lasted—you would keep choosing better. Keep proving, if only to yourself, that you have changed.

That you were no longer that person.

And maybe… maybe in helping Lucifer with his problem, find peace, or even just hold on to a scrap of happiness…

Maybe…you could earn a little of your own.

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