#i might write a oneshot of this..........

[tinysunshine]

"I enjoy seein’ you sweaty and out of breath, kiddo." read this and knew this oneshot was about to blow me the fuck away. i wasn’t wrong!

You frown at him – you might enjoy getting on your knees for his pleasure whenever he wants you to, but you’ve never liked being on top – he calls you babydoll, doesn’t he? Might as well treat you like one. being joel’s pillow princess 🤝 him ordering reader to ride him. both made me clench, so there’s that.

The doctor wouldn’t tell Joel anything at all, and you both know it – but you enjoy this game just as much as Joel does, this play-pretending of him being more of a guardian than most people would deem morally right. Whenever you think about it too hard, the tingle in your stomach turns into guilt, but now, with Joel hovering over you, broad and sure and old enough to really be that guardian, you only feel the familiar flame of desire starting to lick at your insides. everything about this 🥹😍😌🥰😛😋😚

"There we go, sweetheart. You gonna talk back again?"

“No, Dad."

Finally you’re back to being the sweet girl he likes you to be. Your stomach flutters looking up into his warm face lined with wrinkles, both from sorrow and joy you never got to see, because you had not been born yet. The thought shouldn’t be arousing.

That Joel could love your body simply because it was yours, that this mere fact was enough for him to groan and get hard whenever you blinked right and played with the shoulder-strap of your top – it felt so paternal. That night you called him that name for the first time, and there was the same surprise on his face, as he came so hard inside of you, you don’t know how he didn’t knock you up to this day. this is just so fucking good. the talent you bring to kinky smut blows me away every single time. it’s so much more than just joel domming reader and you always manage to express that perfectly. 10/10 as usual.

"That’s right, angel," he mumbles, and moves to unclasp his belt, "’s just your old man. Just Dad." he is my old man. i know that’s fucking right. so fucking filthy and hot 😭

"That’s good, baby, just like that. Don’t mind the spot, I’ll do the laundry later." 😀 i’m normal about this (lying). i need to ride joel’s thigh asap.

"Go ahead, sweetheart, sit on it." and "That’s it, biiiig stretch, baby," THE WAY HE SAYS BIG STRETCH 🩷💗💓💞💕💖💘💝 i need him to fuck me until the paint peels off the fucking walls. lord have fucking mercy.

"Look at you," he praises, his voice rough and low, "riding me like a champ. Pity I can’t enroll you in competitions for this, you’d win your Dad some medals." and "You’d like that, hm? Makin’ your old man proud?" i’m actually killing myself over this thank u

once again you have created a piece of writing that i will be thinking about forever. especially the line about the medals. you are quite literally my shakespeare. german genius. etc etc. i’d come up with more nicknames if i wasn’t so braindead and distracted by dad! joel. your talent amazes me everytime. thank u for blessing us 😌🩷

Your Sweet Divine

summary: The only cardio you enjoy is sex with Joel, and even if it's not quite what the doctor ordered, he'll oblige to keep his little girl healthy. warnings: dd/lg, reader calls Joel Dad, incest play (explicitly stated they're not related), big age gap (50s & 20s), discussion of body image, reader has a strained relationship with her physique, Joel is patient and sweet but stern, Joel calls reader kiddo, praise kink, orgasm delay, shy reader, please read the author's note bc I do not have the energy to get cancelled

note: hey, so. I don't know what the fuck this is, but I dedicate it to the girls who got picked last every single time when the kids were choosing teams in P.E. class...just please be aware that although reader's body type isn't technically being described (except for her having long-ish hair), I don't know how to write for another body type than mine, and I'm super scrawny in the non-athletic, 9 year old boy way, so if that might not be relatable or even triggering, it's okay to skip this one! There'll be more stories soon, including these kinds of kinks. If you're not into calling Joel Dad, that's understandable and probably very sane of you, but no reason to insult any of the people who are <3 now, enjoy reading!

"I don’t wanna go."

Joel furrows his brows at your petulance and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. You wrap your arms around your legs and dig your toes into the soft sofa cushions. It would be so easy to just stay on the couch all day and make Joel watch some shitty reality tv show with you.

"The doctor said twice a week minimum."

You huff and don’t meet his eye.

"Sweetheart?"

You can’t help it, your eyes flicker upwards at the pet name, and although Joel’s expression is stern, you detect gentleness, too.

"I just…I hate running."

Joel walks over to you and squats down in front of you, his face still almost the same height as yours. He wraps his fingers around your ankles and massages you gently with his thumbs.

"’N why’s that?"

You shrug, look away, rest your chin on your knees, look at Joel again. He’s waiting patiently for an answer.

"I’m not…you’ve never seen me do sports. I’m awful at it."

Joel hums, and presses a kiss to your knee.

"You’re not s’posed to run a marathon, baby, just get your lungs up to speed again."

Of course Joel Miller wouldn’t get it, not with a biceps and frame like his. There is no way he was ever picked last to be on a volleyball team. Or soccer. Or softball.

"It’s embarrassing," you admit, "I don’t want people to see me. And I really really hate it. It’s no fun at all, just makes me ache all over and feel like a...like a weakling or a grandma."

You words are childish and you know it. It’s not supposed to be fun, it’s supposed to expand the volume of your lungs again after a bad case of pneumonia struck you down during the summer. What you should do is grit your teeth and start training like any responsible adult, but you just can’t bring yourself to feel like you did at twelve years old, embarrassed for your chest to be aching so much sooner than anybody else’s while running. Joel’s eyes are watchful, and you sigh.

"Fine," you mumble, "fine, fine, fine, fine. I’ll fucking go run, and then proceed to feel bad about myself for three to four weeks."

But Joel’s hands are unrelenting and don’t slip from your ankles, don’t allow you to put your feet on the floor like you intended.

"Want me to come with you? ’M not as fit as I used to be either. You can laugh at me ’f ya want."

He’s so sweet about it, you almost smile, but the idea is still mortifying.

"I could never look you in the eye again if you saw me all sweaty and out of breath."

Joel cocks an eyebrow.

"I enjoy seein’ you sweaty and out of breath, kiddo."

There seems to be a palpable shift in the air between you, and your breath hitches slightly.

"I-that’s…it’s different."

You can tell Joel is slightly amused now, and the way he rubs your ankles seems to be with slightly more intent, a little more sensual than before.

"No difference at all, baby. ’S both cardio."

That makes you smile against your will, and Joel is visibly satisfied by your bad mood lifting.

"If it’s both cardio, why do I have to go running? Might as well…"

Your voice trails off. Even after all this time with Joel, all the filthy things he has had you say and do, you can’t bring yourself to call what you two do fucking, not in casual conversation.

Joel considers you for a moment, your propped up knees to keep the world at bay, your slightly pink cheeks, the petulant way your arms are crossed.

"Alright," he says, "no runnin’. But you’re doin’ all the work, baby, ’s not supposed to be a picnic."

You frown at him – you might enjoy getting on your knees for his pleasure whenever he wants you to, but you’ve never liked being on top – he calls you babydoll, doesn’t he? Might as well treat you like one.

"Your choice, kid."

You mumble something incoherent that Joel would chastise you for if he had caught it, then take a deep breath and nod.

"Fine," you agree, "but only if–"

"I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain, sweetheart. What d’you think the doctor’s gonna tell me if you’re still having problems at your next appointment, hm?"

He knows his words make your insides twist with want, you can see it in his eyes. The doctor wouldn’t tell Joel anything at all, and you both know it – but you enjoy this game just as much as Joel does, this play-pretending of him being more of a guardian than most people would deem morally right. Whenever you think about it too hard, the tingle in your stomach turns into guilt, but now, with Joel hovering over you, broad and sure and old enough to really be that guardian, you only feel the familiar flame of desire starting to lick at your insides. Joel clocks the way your legs shift slightly, and he smiles.

"There we go, sweetheart. You gonna talk back again?"

"No, Dad."

There it is, that name that would make anyone faint if they listened in. Already, you feel your stomach start to pull tight. Joel gets up and pushes your knees down gently, so that your feet are planted on the floor. You reluctantly obey his touch, still not entirely convinced of this plan. Still, you let him pull you to your feet, his eyes drifting over your form, half assessing, half hungry. You like the clothes you’re wearing, but they’re distinctly un-sporty. Lace and bows and buttons.

"Don’t look at me like that," you grumble, all of a sudden irrationally worried Joel is doing this to shape you into someone he deems more desirable, but his fingers under your chin are gentle when he lifts it up to have you look at him.

"You’re as pretty as they come," he says in that gentle way of his that simultaneously feels so stern, "’s not about looks, sweet girl. You gotta work those little lungs of yours, and when you’re all healthy again, we’ll find you a sport you enjoy, hm? I’ll take ya horseback ridin’, or swimming’. Whatever you’d like."

That thought cheers you up slightly. You don’t enjoy flying balls and angry teammates, but floating through nothingness on your own or having a horse let you guide it is something you think you can get behind. Much more than any of the things the doctor recommended.

"Okay," you agree, and finally you can’t hear that terrible attitude you were giving Joel in your voice anymore, finally you’re back to being the sweet girl he likes you to be. Your stomach flutters looking up into his warm face lined with wrinkles, both from sorrow and joy you never got to see, because you had not been born yet. The thought shouldn’t be arousing. This game you play isn’t really about pretending to be related, it’s not even about control or a discrepancy of power. It’s about a certain lack of conditions that comes with loving Joel, and him loving you. The way you’re able to let him hold your fears and worries for you, and trust him to turn them into something else.

"Up," Joel says softly, and you lift your arms, eyes not moving from his face as he starts to pull your top over your head. Even after all this time, you still get a little insecure whenever Joel sees you naked. You know he likes the way you look, he makes sure to tell you as often as possible, but there is a well of hate for your own body inside of you, fostered in your teenage years, that you never quite managed to get rid of. You think that every girl might feel like this, might be made to feel like it, as if this body isn’t what has carried you through your life for more than two decades now.

You once whispered your confession of insecurity into Joel’s ear, sitting on his lap not long after he first swept you off your feet, and his genuine surprise was more healing than any words of affirmation could have been, though he offered them to you more than willingly. Joel didn’t understand how you could hate something that was your home, your vessel, and this inherently and sweetly masculine naivety was what made you really question your outlook on yourself for the first time. That Joel could love your body simply because it was yours, that this mere fact was enough for him to groan and get hard whenever you blinked right and played with the shoulder-strap of your top – it felt so paternal. That night you called him that name for the first time, and there was the same surprise on his face, as he came so hard inside of you, you don’t know how he didn’t knock you up to this day.

After that it was an easy dynamic to sink into, you letting him take care of you, him reveling in the trust and intimacy. Nobody knew about it, or your relationship would have been picked apart even more than it already was. But here, on Joel’s couch, under Joel’s palms, you get to let all pretenses fall, and bare yourself to Joel in any way he’ll have you, just as much as he does for you.

So you let out a shaky breath when he smoothes his palms over your ribcage, his hands so large it feels like everything alive inside of you fits into them. You watch him smile when goose pimples erupt on your skin, always pleased by the effect he has on you. The tips of his fingers slip under the strap of your cotton bra, just to tease, just to hint at getting it off, but then he slides them down and over your hips.

"Let’s get this pretty skirt off, hm? ’S no outfit to work out in."

You move your head in agreement, something between a nod and a head-shake, and Joel pulls the fabric down and over your thighs, exposing your soft skin and panties. A twinge of insecurity twists your stomach, being so bare and exposed in front of a completely clothed Joel, who you’re sure never once had to struggle with how sporty he is. Not when his muscles are bulging like that, not when he seems to love how much you love his belly. You envy him for it, and wish he could transfer some of his security right into your veins. Until then, you’ll have to make do by borrowing it from him whenever he has you split on his cock, letting the doubts seep from your mind when he calls you pretty as you fall apart.

He unclasps your bra, slides down your panties and you step out of them, completely naked in front of him.

"Christ," he mumbles, "if ya didn’t need to exercise your lungs, I’d fuck you right into that couch."

You feel your cheeks heat up, and look down, which earns you a rumbly chuckle.

"Oh sweetheart, ’s just me. Don’t gotta be embarrassed."

"Okay," you say softly, meeting his eye again, "okay, Dad."

Joel’s pupils dilate just slightly.

"That’s right, angel," he mumbles, and moves to unclasp his belt, "’s just your old man. Just Dad."

It’s like you can feel yourself get wet in time with his words, watching him slide his jeans over his prominent bulge. He doesn’t take them off all the way, just enough to be able to pull himself out of his boxers and pump his fist over himself a couple of times.

"You know, kiddo, when you’re done with your workout, I’ll make us the biggest hot fudge sundae you’ve ever seen. ’S all about balance."

Your lips twitch with a smile, and Joel smiles back, sitting down on the sofa in front of you.

"Come on, sweetheart, the quicker you start, the sooner you’re done."

Your belly aches with want, and you wish he would just turn you around, press your head into the cushions and fuck you deeply, but his words make it more than clear that it’s not technically about your pleasure, at least not primarily. The softness in his eyes tells you it’s all part of the game, all part of a distraction from not wanting to let him see you work out, so when you sit down on his knee, your hands on his shoulders, it doesn’t feel embarrassing anymore. You swallow, waiting for Joel’s hands on your hips, but he just puts them behind his head, looking down at you expectantly.

"You waitin’ for somethin’?"

He always helps you. He always guides your movement, because he knows it shuts off your mind to know you’re doing it the way he likes. But he’s quiet now, watching you all relaxed and expectant. You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat.

"You want me to help you?"

"Yes please, Dad" you say softly, feeling the muscles of his thigh contract against your core. Almost involuntarily, your hips twitch towards him. Joel hums, as if contemplating your request, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I’ll talk you through it," he decides after a beat, "but you’re movin’ on your own, princess. ’S still a workout."

Your eyes are wide, but you don’t argue.

"Start movin’ your hips, sweetheart, gotta get you wet first. Any athlete knows to warm up first."

You clench at his words, the practical way he describes what you’re doing, and start rolling your hips against his thigh, the rough denim dragging deliciously against your clit. Joel’s cock twitches when a soft groan escapes your mouth, and he drags his eyes down your body.

"That’s good, baby, just like that. Don’t mind the spot, I’ll do the laundry later."

The fact that you’re ruining Joel’s jeans didn’t even cross your mind, you’re entirely focused on the feeling of him right under you, the tips of your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Good job, baby, keep goin’."

Even though you’re moving on your own, it’s easier with Joel coaching you trough it, tracking your movement and encouraging you whenever he can sense your reluctance. You know you’re soaking his thigh, that he must surely be able to feel your heat and wetness even through the fabric, and the thought makes you move your hips a little more frantically, as your head droops towards Joel’s shoulder.

"Upright, baby, think of your posture," Joel says, though he sounds a little strained himself.

"Da-ad," you whine, "’m close."

"Hold it off, we ain’t done yet."

You could disobey him. Joel wouldn’t get angry, though he wouldn’t let you off the hook either, but something about the authoritative way he’s instructing you makes you incapable of going through with it. So you slow your hips, revel in his consequential praise, and wish he would kiss you. But you’re working out, not making out, so you look up at him expectantly, and he nods.

"Go ahead, sweetheart, sit on it."

You wrap your hand around his cock, red and hot and so hard, and move so that you’re kneeling over him, aligning your entrance with the tip. You stare right into his eyes when you sink down, and Joel smiles when he sees the way your brows furrow in a mix of concentration and pain.

"That’s it, biiiig stretch, baby," he say with a groan, his eyes moving down to where you’re slowly being impaled by his cock. It’s a lot to take even when he eats you out or gives you his fingers first, but now the feeling is so overwhelming you close your eyes for a moment. You keep going, though, until you’re entirely full, and Joel lets out another breathy groan. His biceps is twitching with restraint, his fingers tugging just slightly at his own hair, but his hips stay where they are. You know on any other day, he would have flipped you around by now and given it to you himself, and you marvel at his self restraint.

"Start movin’," Joel orders, and you lift your hips upwards again, rolling them just slightly, the drag of his cock inside you overwhelmingly delicious. Little whines and groans escape you as you bounce up and down, eyes wide and on Joel, holding onto him for support.

"Feels so good, Dad," you mumble, and Joel smiles, giving you one thrust of his hips that makes your eyes roll back, but then he’s still again, only his chest is heaving.

"Look at you," he praises, his voice rough and low, "riding me like a champ. Pity I can’t enroll you in competitions for this, you’d win your Dad some medals."

Your hips stutter at his words, and Joel groans at the way you clench in response to his dirty talk, always so receptive.

"You’d like that, hm? Makin’ your old man proud?"

You nod and vaguely register a dull pain in your lower lip, as your teeth sink into it.

"Yeah," you breathe, bouncing up and down on Joel’s cock, your thighs starting to ache. Joel chuckles, and tucks a lose strand of hair behind your ear, and you wish he’d touch you properly, put his hands on your tits or hips or throat, but he just rests his arm on the back of the sofa.

"Tell you secret, angel, I’m always prouda you. ’S not about winnin’, just about feelin’ good in in your pretty little body."

You keep moving, ignoring the ache in your legs and stomach best as you can, but after a while of heavy breathing and a film of sweat building on your forehead and neck, you subconsciously slow down.

"Keep goin’," Joel says when he notices, "you can do it."

So you speed up your movements again, lips parted and air rushing through them quickly.

"Good girl," Joel praises you, his eyes trained on the place he is disappearing inside of you. A sticky white ring has started building at the base of his cock, a mixture of both your arousal. You lift your hips again, eyes unfocused.

"Dad," you whine, "I can’t–"

"Yeah you can, baby, sure you can. Know it’s uncomfortable, but you’ll feel so good when you’re all done. Keep goin’."

You remember this feeling of pushing yourself from p.e. class, but it was always mixed with shame instead of pleasure, and now, with Joel’s eyes on your body, watching your muscles contract appreciatively, you don’t have it in you to feel anything else but the pleasure – except for maybe exhaustion. You keep going as long as you can, breathing heavily and forcing yourself to continue anyways, your hands clawing at Joel’s plaid shirt.

"Please," you mumble after a while, your thighs burning with effort now, the squelching noise of Joel’s body entering yours so obscene it almost makes you come.

"Can you do five more minutes, baby? Five more for Dad?"

For Dad? Sure – you keep bouncing, your hands on Joel’s shoulder pushing you upwards, your breathing going even faster now, your heart hammering against you ribcage.

"That’s it, baby. Doin’ so good. Feel that ache in your legs?"

You nod, bouncing up and down.

"They’ll be a little sore, so I’ll do all the work tomorrow. You think you can do this twice a week?"

"No," you breathe, and Joel chuckles.

"No? Want to go runnin’ instead?"

"No, Dad," you whine and frown at him, "want you to fuck me."

Joel’s eyes are amused but kind, as he watches you ride him all on your own.

"Oh, I’ll fuck you, little girl. Don’t gotta do without anythin’, I’ll still fuck you each night. We’ll add this twice a week, hm?"

That makes you perk up. Joel meets your every need, fucks you however you want him to, every day, even though you know at his age he could go without it longer than you. On the rare occasions that it doesn’t work, no matter how hard you suck and stroke, he eats you out until you see stars, then keeps going until you fall asleep, but you rarely find the time to do it more than once a day. And even though he leaves you entirely satisfied, you like the idea of coming on Joel’s cock more than he already has you do, even if you’re the one who has to put in the work.

"Okay," you mumble, and drop your forehead onto his shoulder in exhaustion, your hips still lifting and sinking down on him, though with less energy. "Okay, Dad." 

 And finally Joel reaches out for you, finally he grabs your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, as he starts lifting you up and down on his cock. He does it so effortlessly, muscles bulging when you open your eyes to watch him, and he speeds up, his hips snapping upwards as his arms force you up and down.

"Good girl," Joel mumbles, lost in pleasure himself now, "always so stubborn till my cock fixes you, hm?"

Your cheeks heat up, but he’s not wrong, and when he slams you down particularly forcefully, you mewl.

"You go ahead and come for me, kiddo. Did so good."

And that’s all it takes for your earth to shatter, stomach pulling tight and your muscles cramping up. You hear Joel groan over the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, and register his cock twitching against your cervix, spilling into you so much you feel like you’re being flooded with cum. Your breathing is quick, your insides still twitching and Joel finally catches your slack mouth in a kiss. You sigh into his mouth as both of your hips still, and he pulls you against his chest, cock still buried inside of you. You go limp, panting into the fabric of his shirt, and his hands start to stroke your naked back. A button of his shirt presses into your cheek, but you’re too exhausted to move your head away.

"You still with me, sweetheart?"

You hum contentedly, and Joel laughs quietly. He adjusts your body, but doesn’t slip out of you, just presses his lips to your jaw. You play with the hair at the back of his neck, mind blissfully lost in your exhaustion, and Joel’s hands move to your thighs. He starts to massage them gently, strong hands digging into your sore muscles, and you let out an involuntary moan. Joel kisses the side of your neck, his tongue chasing and catching your beads of sweat, sucking a hickey into your red and pulsing neck.

You try to pull away, but Joel nips your skin warningly.

"Told ya I like ya sweaty ’n out of breath, didn’t I?"

And you don’t have it in you to argue or feel embarrassed about it. You melt into him further, and shift your hips just slightly. Joel’s spent cock twitches inside of you, and you feel a bit of his cum leak out at the side. You sigh at the feeling, and kiss Joel’s throat.

"Thank God for my vasectomy, can’t have ya gettin’ pregnant with your Dad’s baby now, can we?"

You cheeks burn bright red and you hide your face in Joel’s shoulder.

"Stop it," you mumble, and Joel chuckles.

"No, you stop it, kiddo. There’s nothin’ you should feel embarrassed about with me, you hear me?"

You nod, but Joel isn’t satisfied.

"You hear me?"

"Yes," you mumble, "I hear you, Dad."

"Good."

You sit like that for a while, Joel’s hands drifting over your sweat-sticky skin and massaging your sore muscles.

"You sure you’re still up to me fuckin’ you tonight, baby?" Joel asks when you yawn. You smile into his shirt.

"I’m sure."

Joel kisses the top of your head.

"Promised my little athlete a hot fudge sundae before that, though."

"Not yet, Dad. Want you to stay inside me."

Joel tangles his hand into your hair and pulls gently so that you’re forced to crane your neck. He kisses you, his beard scratching your sweaty skin, and you sigh when he licks into your mouth surprisingly territorially. He’s gentle with you, but already you can tell he’s thinking about fucking you again by the way his cock twitches with every sound you make.

"Perfect girl," he mumbles, "my perfect girl."

[f1withespresso]

public enemy number one | pt. 16

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

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

✎ — chapter word count: +5.2k

✎ — radio: i'm starting to understand why brocedes never recovered :/ imma just put it here for you: i love writing fluff (as my latest published oneshot might suggest) <3 thanks for all the reblogs and likes and comments, i hope you enjoy this one as well!

series masterlist

The heat in Baku wraps around you like tin foil — heavy, sun-warmed, and unapologetic. The kind that clings to skin and slows time, but you don’t flinch. You step out of the black McLaren SUV in sleek sunglasses, headphones snug over your ears, lips glossed like a blade. Everything about your entrance is deliberate. Composed. Untouchable. The paddock noise falters for a moment when you pass. A flicker of silence, tension as thick as the humidity. Then the clicks of cameras fill the vacuum — photos, videos, livestreams already captioned in all caps. You don’t give them a reaction. Not a glance. Not a smile. Nothing they can twist. Ten days since the podcast dropped and the firestorm hasn’t died down. If anything, it’s blazed broader. Whispers of a switch to Red Bull are everywhere now. Media vultures asking the same loaded questions with different phrasing. Anonymous “sources” feeding the drama. Fan edits slashing between your interviews and Verstappen’s like it’s already confirmed. You haven't said a word. Zak’s doing his best PR firefighter act. “We’re working closely with both of our drivers to ensure they can perform at the highest level here at McLaren. This is a competitive environment, and while the outside noise is louder than ever, internally, our focus is entirely on the racing.”, “As far as [Y/N]’s future is concerned, we’re in the final stages of discussions on her contract renewal. There’s a strong mutual commitment, and I have every reason to believe she’ll be in papaya for many seasons to come.” and “We don’t comment on speculation from other teams, but I can say with confidence that we’re very happy with our driver lineup, and we’re building something strong for the future here at McLaren.”  The usual corporate anesthesia. But his smile has been tighter. His eyes, darting. He knows it’s slipping. And Oscar— Well. That’s a whole other story. You haven’t spoken. Not since Monza or Hungary or Canada. Not since Monaco, really, if you're being honest with yourself. Whatever thread was left between you two snapped, and now it dangles awkwardly in front of every microphone. But you? You’re still standing. You’re still fast. Faster, even. Winning races. Stealing headlines. Owning every second of screen time without saying a word. Someone calls your name as you walk through the paddock gates. You lift a hand in a lazy wave, sunglasses still on. Not unkind. Just distant. Controlled. Everything about you screams business as usual, and that’s what rattles them most. The fact that you’re not rattled. The fact that you walk into this circus — lipstick perfect, playlist blasting in your ears, rumors clawing at your ankles — and still look like you own the damn sport. Because maybe you do.

📍Baku City Circuit

liked by username1, username2 and 34.935 others

f1gossip Spotted: [Y/N] gliding into the Baku paddock on Thursday like she didn’t just live through the most chaotic driver fallout since Brocedes 2016. Hair on point, sunglasses sharp enough to slice trough steel, and a PR game so tight even Ferraris’s jaws are clenched. The girlies say unbothered, but this? This is weaponized nonchalance. Rumors still swirl about her alleged Red Bull switch — and Oscar’s... emotional turbulence — but [Y/N] walked in like she already signed the contract and dropped the pen in slow motion. The streets are watching. Baku just got hotter.

xoxo🍸

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username1 i fear oscar may have just lost a championship AND his dignity to a woman in tinted lip balm and tinted contracts

username2 the ✨power✨ of a woman who knows her pace and her price

username3 the fact that oscar made it a personal war and she made it a fashion moment… queen behavior 

username4 poor oscar :( he’s clearly suffering and everyone’s just giggling like she didn’t ruin his life

username5 women shouldn’t even be in f1 this isn’t a fashion show

username6 she made the Baku straight look like a runway and i respect that

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The McLaren Speedtail gleams under the Baku sun like it has something to prove. So do you. Your sunglasses switched for a helmet, you slide into the driver’s seat with practiced ease. The passenger door swings open to reveal Ariana Bravo, already grinning, mic clipped to her paddock outfit, nerves barely hidden behind charm. “Be gentle with me,” she jokes, buckling in. “Or don’t. It’ll make good content either way.” You laugh, pressing the ignition. The engine purs like it knew the kind of day you were about to have. Cameras installed all over in the car begin to roll. “Alright,” Ariana says, smoothing her jumpsuit, “Hot lap with [Y/N] in the McLaren Speedtail. Baku city circuit. 1100 horsepower and a paddock full of rumors. Let’s go.” You peel out of the pit lane with a casual flick of the wrist, the G-force already pulling a startled yelp from her. “Okay—this was a mistake—” she gasps as the first corner blurred past. “You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?” “Because you haven’t even screamed yet.” She screams by turn three. By the time you clear the long straight, the car edging toward 300 km/h, Ariana is half-laughing, half-clutching the side door. “Alright!” she shouts over the roar of the engine. “Question one—Jesus Christ, question one—how the hell are you this calm?” “Years of experiencing this reguarly,” you reply dryly without missing a beat. She cackles, still holding on for dear life. “Okay, real one: there’s been a lot of talk lately. Especially surrounding potential contract negotiations with Red Bull. You’ve stayed pretty silent. Is that part of the strategy?” You take the sharp right-hander without lifting. “You ever see a queen argue with peasants?” “Oh my god,” she mutters, “that’s going viral.” You smirk, eyes flicking to the apex. “Let them talk. I’ll keep driving.” You slow slightly as the lap curved back toward the pit, but the adrenaline still humming under your skin — sharp, clean, controlled. Final question. Ariana glances over, her tone softening. “You just hit 300 kilometers an hour in a hypercar on city streets, and you barely blinked. And yet, you’re in the center of the storm right now — rumors, tension with your teammate, contract noise. Everyone’s watching you. So…” She tilts her head. “How do you for real stay this calm — on track, and off?” You downshift, rolling into the finish, the skyline glittering ahead. Then: “Because I know what I’m worth. And none of this noise changes that.” A beat. Ariana blinks. “You rehearsed that, didn’t you?” “Not once.” “God, I hate you.” You laugh. “See, you’re not the only one. Everyone does.”

username1 🔥🔥 that calm under 300 km/h pressure? Next level. [Y/N] owns Baku — on and off track username3 who else felt that double meaning in her last answer? The queen knows exactly what she’s doing. 💅 username4 that smirk at 2:15 😏 Absolute legend. Can’t wait for the race weekend with this kind of mindset mclaren the Speedtail’s fast, but [Y/N]’s mind is faster. Perfect combo. Ready for another stellar weekend! 🚀 username5 honestly, kinda feel bad for Oscar. [Y/N] is just untouchable right now… username6 the way she handled those questions? 👏 would pay good money to have that level of chill yourusername was great fun taking you for a lap 🧡

The sun is still low over Baku as you strut into the McLaren garage for FP1 on Friday, the faint hum of the city circuit buzzing through the air. Your engineer greets you with a nod and a quick smile—the kind of exchange that felt effortless, a silent confirmation that you and the car are in sync. From the first sector, it is clear: you were on fire. Your lines are sharp, your braking points flawless, and the lap times steadily dropping. The McLaren isn’t just a machine beneath you—it was a part of your focus and control. Each lap, you carve through the Baku streets with clinical precision, the car’s balance perfect under your command. Meanwhile, over on the other side of the garage, Oscar’s mood tells a different story. His radio crackles with frustration—“Struggling with understeer,” “Balance is off again”—and there are a few messy slides that have the team biting their nails. The usual stoic confidence is missing; his eyes carry a distant, distracted look. It is subtle but unmistakable. During FP2, the pattern is the same. Your long runs are smooth, your pace consistent, the communication between you and your engineer light and sharp. You can feel the momentum from the past races propelling you forward. Oscar’s lap times, meanwhile, are erratic, a frustrating downward spiral that no amount of coaching seems to fix. Back in the Sky Sports commentary booth, Naomi Schiff’s voice cut through the coverage, calm but pointed. “You can’t ignore the form [Y/N] is showing right now—fast, composed, and on top of their game.” Nico Rosberg chimes in, nodding. “It’s a sharp contrast to Oscar’s struggles today. Usually, he’s rock solid, but something’s clearly off.” Karun Chandhok adds, “And with all the noise from that podcast, you have to wonder how much the team dynamics are affecting their performance at this point. Like this has been going on for a while now. Both the feud of the McLaren drivers, but also Oscar’s streak of misfortune with the car. In the past two races he only made it to third place after a hell of a fight. It’s not just about lap times—it’s mental, emotional.” Naomi’s tone sharpens slightly, “There’s been speculation all of last weekend —has McLaren already started to lean toward a number one driver? It’s not official, but the signs are hard to miss.” The broadcast cuts back to the live feed, and you return to the car, calm, focused, unbothered—fully aware of the storm swirling just meters away.

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Oscar sits slouched against the familiar McLaren backdrop, the garage buzzing quietly behind him. The usual bright lights of the social media shoot feel harsher somehow, exposing every tired line on his face. His usually crisp posture is sagging, the weight of the week pressing visibly on his shoulders. He forces a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—those usually sharp, determined eyes now flickering with frustration and exhaustion. When the camera start rolling, his voice is low, measured, but the tightness beneath the surface is impossible to miss. “Yeah, FP1 and FP2... just wasn’t my day,” he says, dragging out the words like they tasted bitter. “We’re still figuring things out with the setup, trying to find the right balance. I’m pushing, but it’s been a bit of a struggle today.” He runs a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture that speaks volumes. “I’ll keep working with the team. We’ve had tough sessions before, and we’ve bounced back before as well.” But the forced optimism can’t mask the frustration. His jaw clenches when he says it, eyes darting briefly to the side like he wants to be anywhere but there. The camera catches the subtle shake in his hand as he tucks a stray strand behind his ear. McLaren’s socials team posts the clip with a cautiously optimistic caption—something, something along the lines of “Oscar’s honest take after a challenging day at Baku. Ready to bounce back tomorrow.” But even their words feel like they were treading carefully, unsure how to spin the growing tension. Fans watching the clip swarm the comments, quickly picking up on the unusual tone. The concern is palpable, mixed with an undercurrent of speculation and worry. For the first time in a while, the image of Oscar Piastri—the unshakable, stoic rising star—is flickering. And everyone can see it.

username1 love that honesty 💙 it’s not about never falling, it’s about getting back up. We got you, Oscar! 🔥 username2 man, this dude’s worked so hard all season. Everyone has off days, don’t @ me username4 stay strong, Oscar! We’re all rooting for you here ❤️ nicole_piastri: Keep your head up, Oscar. We’re so proud of you. This is just a bump in the road ❤️ username6 bro looks like he needs a vacation and maybe a hug 😅

The air in Baku crackles with energy as the qualifying session begins on saturday. You settle into the groove instantly — sharp, composed, every corner nailed with surgical precision. Lap after lap, your times drop steadily, and when it counts most, you unleashed your final flyer. The last corner comes up, your tires gripping the tarmac like glue, and you cross the line with a lap time good enough for pole position. “Pole for [Y/N], brilliant stuff. She’s absolutely flying here in Baku,” the Sky Sports commentators chorus in sync with your engineer’s calm radio confirmation: “Fantastic lap. You’re P1 right now.” Meanwhile, down the grid, Oscar’s session unravels. His engineer’s voice crackles nervously over the radio: “Oscar, focus. Keep it together, final lap coming. You can do this.” But something is off. The car wobbles through Turn 3, his lines are messy, and frustration creeps into his voice. “I just can’t find the grip. This balance is killing me.” “Stay calm. Reset, reset. We’ve got time.” But in fact, they didn’t have the time. Oscar’s final run is a bust — a mistake in the chicane drops his time and he settles into P7. “Not the qualifying we expected from Oscar Piastri today. His rhythm’s completely gone,” the commentators note, their tone laced with concern. As the session ends, the tension is palpable in parc fermé. You glide out of your car, radiant and calm, a quiet smile on your lips. You glance over toward Oscar — but he is already packing up, eyes downcast, clearly avoiding the usual handshake or congratulations. You don’t expect anything else. Around you, the murmurs of the paddock float on — the undeniable contrast between a rising star locking in pole and a teammate visibly crumbling under pressure. And for now, you simply let your silence speak volumes.

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The Hilton Baku bar feels dim and muted, almost suffocating under the weight of the night. It’s late, but the room still hums with soft music, low conversations, and the occasional clink of glasses. Most faces are relaxed, winding down after a tense qualifying day — but Oscar’s corner is different. It’s like a storm caught inside a glass. He’s surrounded by a few McLaren crew members — some mechanics, a couple of engineers — the kind of casual group that usually jokes and unwinds after a long day at the office. At first, Oscar’s laughter is there, but it’s brittle, forced, a thin mask stretched over raw frustration. His fingers drum erratically on the table’s polished surface, eyes darting anxiously as if trying to crack a code that won’t reveal itself. Every sip of his drink feels too slow, too deliberate. His jaw tightens, and the smile slips off, replaced by a shadow no one around him dares to confront. The talk starts easy: small complaints about the car, the circuit, the tires. But then the volume creeps up — his voice sharpens, edge cutting through the background hum like glass breaking. It’s the frustration you never heard from him before, raw and unfiltered, twisting into angry rants about strategy decisions, teammate dynamics, and the relentless media storm that’s been suffocating the paddock. “Why is it always me having to figure things out? What’s the point if the car won’t cooperate?” His words spill over, punctuated by sharp exhalations, his hands gesturing wildly now. The guys around him exchange nervous glances, shifting uneasily on their stools, casting worried looks toward the bartender, who subtly inches closer but says nothing. One mechanic nervously laughs, trying to diffuse the tension, but Oscar cuts him off, eyes flashing dark. “No, seriously. I’m done pretending it’s all fine.” The frustration is thick in the air now, mixing with the scent of spilled drinks and stale cigarettes. The whole bar feels like it’s holding its breath. The whispers start — the usual glances toward the McLaren corner become pointed.

The once-private meltdown is now a public spectacle. A few younger fans and staff from other teams—who had just been enjoying a quiet drink—pull out their phones, fingers moving quickly. Oscar’s voice rises again, too loud, jarring against the otherwise subdued atmosphere. He’s standing now, chair scraping harshly on the floor, face flushed, eyes glassy but burning. He paces a little, muttering curses under his breath, slamming a fist softly but sharply on the counter. “I’m not some rookie to be managed,” he snaps, voice cracking with exhaustion and anger. He sounds like a tired toddler. “This—this isn’t who I am.” The room grows smaller, more claustrophobic with every passing second. The quiet humiliation is palpable, thick enough to choke on. The guys he’s with glance at each other, uneasy. One finally stands, an awkward smile plastered on his face, and gently steps toward Oscar. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you to your room before this gets worse.” The junior mechanic’s hand hovers for a moment before resting on Oscar’s shoulder — firm but kind. Oscar resists, fumbling with a bitter laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders slump, and the fight drains out of him like a sudden winter thaw. He lets himself be led away, voice trailing off into silence. But the damage is done. Outside the bar, the low murmur of whispered speculation is already breaking into the roar of social media. Screens light up with blurry but unmistakable photos — Oscar’s hunched posture, the dark circles under his eyes, the tense set of his jaw. There’s no hiding the cracks. Within minutes, the screenshots and clips flood the biggest F1 gossip pages. F1WAGss tweets a damning headline: “Oscar Piastri: Cracking Under Pressure?” DeuxMoiGP posts a fiery comment: “From Stoic to Shattered — What’s really going on with McLaren’s ice-cold star?” The reaction is instantaneous. Fans express shock, sympathy, disbelief. Memes and speculation spiral into chaos. The same public who once praised him for icy calm now questions whether he’s unraveling, the weight of expectations finally crushing the man everyone thought untouchable. And you? You’re already up in your suite, untouched. Unshaken. Watching the wildfire from the distance of your screen, your lips curling in a subtle, unreadable smile. Because in this game, coldness wins. And tonight, the one who stayed cold is rising, while the one who burned is falling.

username1 from Ice Man to Ice Melt 🔥 who else did not see this coming? username2 poor Oscar... or is it ‘Oscar Who?’ from podium dreams to bar scenes. Meanwhile, [Y/N] is out here slaying Baku like a queen 👑 username3 honestly, this is what happens when you bottle up the pressure all season and then explode on camera (or at the bar) someone get this man a hug or a xanax🥴 username4 not gonna lie, watching Oscar struggle this hard after being the ‘stoic star’ is kinda embarrassing. Meanwhile, [Y/N] is literally pole and poised. Talk about a mood shift 🙃 username5 is it just me, or does Oscar’s meltdown highlight why McLaren might be quietly favoring [Y/N] this season? Confidence > Cracks 👀 username6 been rooting for Oscar forever but this? This ain’t it, chief. Seeing [Y/N] handle the pressure like a boss while Oscar’s… well, this video says it all 😬 username7 the whispers in the paddock? Louder than ever. No one expected Oscar to be the one losing grip. And yet here we are. Meanwhile, [Y/N]'s making a damn good case for a Red Bull seat

It’s lights out in Baku, you launch clean off the line — no wheelspin, no drama — just an assertive, sharp dive into Turn 1 that sets the tone. The papaya rocket glides through Baku’s tight opening corners like it’s yours and yours alone. “Great launch, you’re clear behind. Verstappen P2, half a second back. Let’s build a gap now,” your engineer calls, voice smooth in your ears. You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Your driving does the talking. Behind you, Max Verstappen holds station. Pressures, tests the delta in Sector 2, but never quite closes. His DRS flaps open down the back straight, but the Red Bull doesn’t have the pace today. Not against you. Up in the media both David Croft starts analysing the happenings on the track. “What a start from [Y/LN]! Picture-perfect. Verstappen is trying to hang on, but look at that confidence in the McLaren – this is the drive of a championship contender.” “The control from [Y/LN] is unreal. Even with Verstappen behind, she’s not just managing—she’s dictating the pace of this entire race.” By Lap 17, you’re pulling two, then three, then five seconds clear. Max radios a terse (“We’re just so slow”) while you keep it clinical, flowing through Castle like the walls bend around you. Your radio crackles again. “Box box. Strat 6. Watch the entry. Pit stop target perfect.” You hit your marks with millimetric precision. Tyres off, tyres on — 2.2 seconds. Back out in clean air. Max pits the next lap, but it’s no use. You’ve already built a buffer. Somewhere behind you, Oscar is on a mission. From P7 to P6 in Lap 24. P6 to P5 in Lap 29. He dives late on Russell at Turn 3 for P4 in Lap 33 — tires screaming, just barely avoiding the wall. “That was aggressive from Piastri. Clean, but late. You can tell he’s got something to prove after yesterday,“ is what the commentators have to say about that. 

“Car’s good. Just... sweaty as hell. Let’s keep going,“ Oscar’s voice is hoarse on the radio. Strained. Lap 41, he’s chasing Leclerc for the final podium spot. Ferrari’s tyres are fading. Oscar gets DRS on the main straight and pulls alongside into Turn 1. It’s textbook — late brake, clean apex, done. “That’s the Oscar Piastri we know. Fast. Calculated. But I have to say, even now — his body language on the radio... it’s not the same.” Crofts sidekick commentator for the day adds, “You don’t drive from P7 to P3 in Baku without real talent. But there’s something off. He looks pale in the garage. Like he hasn’t slept in a week.”

But you? You’re unbothered by all of it at the front. You stretch the lead. Lap after lap. Cool, quick, untouchable. By Lap 47, the Sky Sports team has stopped trying to predict a Verstappen challenge. There is none. Lap 48 of 51, your engineer whispers: “You’re clear by eight seconds. Bring it home. Mode 7. No pressure.” And you do. Final lap. The streets echo with cheers. The orange on the pit wall leaps up. As you cross the line, you let out a sharp exhale — not relief, not joy. Something cleaner. Like satisfaction.

“What a drive! From pole to victory — [Y/N] with a another masterclass in Baku! Absolutely untouchable today! A phenomenal race by Oscar Piastri as well — P7 to P3 is nothing to scoff at. But beside [Y/N]’s sheer dominance today… it feels like he’s chasing shadows. It’s the kind of race that note only puts you on the top of the list for Red Bull, but all the teams really, should her contract not be extended“ 

Parc fermé is chaos. Max steps out of his car and immediately beelines for you. “Ridiculous,” he laughs, hugging you one-armed, sweat-soaked and still smiling. “You didn’t give me anything today.” You shrug, lips curving. “Try harder next time.” He snorts. “Don’t tempt me.” Cameras flash. The moment feels easy — two pros at the top of their game, basking. Oscar steps out of his McLaren ten seconds later. He’s P3, but it doesn’t feel like a celebration. He rips off his gloves slowly, neck craned toward you and Max laughing in parc fermé. His helmet stays on longer than usual. When it comes off, his face is flushed — from heat, or shame, or both. He walks to the weighing station without a word. Doesn’t come near.

It’s hot and bright and loud on the podium with the fireworks and the fans. Max gives you a cheeky look as the anthem ends, and before you can react, he drenches you — full force — with his champagne. “You deserve it,” he shouts over the noise, before grabbing another bottle and dumping it straight over your head like it’s Austria 2022 all over again. “Cheers, champ.” You squeal and try to dodge it, but your suit’s already soaked. Still, you’re smiling. Genuinely smiling. For once, the celebration doesn’t feel staged. Oscar is there too. He clinks bottles. He forces a smile for the photos. But there’s a hollowness in his eyes — like he knows exactly what the world will see when this gets posted.

The champagne hasn’t dried from your hair yet when you’re sent to do media and interviews. It begins with your press officer approaching you in the hallway outside the McLaren hospitality suite, lips pressed into a thin line, fingers typing furiously into her phone. When she glances up, there’s something tight in her eyes — not panic, exactly, but the twitchy anticipation of another flare-up she’ll have to spin. “He’s not doing himself any favors,” she mutters, gesturing toward the media pen. You already know who he is. Your stomach sinks a little. Not enough to matter. Just enough to sting. “What’s he saying?” “Passive-aggressive stuff. Weird energy. Looks… rough.” She lowers her voice. “I think he’s still hungover.” You shouldn’t care. You try not to.

Oscar stands stiffly under the bright white canopy of the post-race interview area. He’s in full team gear — fire suit zipped to the neck, cap pulled low, jaw tight. The victory orange feels too bright on him. Washed out. A warning sign. The camera rolls. “Oscar, an impressive recovery today from P7 to the podium,” Sky’s Craig Slater begins. “You must be pleased with the drive?” Oscar shrugs, eyes flitting off-camera. “It wasn’t bad, I guess. I mean, I shouldn’t be starting seventh to begin with, should I?” “Still, it was a strong race and your teammate—” “I’m aware,” he cuts in, sharp. “They had the easy run. Clean air helps. Good strategy, no dirty air, no traffic. It’s easier when everything lines up.” Slater tries to redirect. “Do you feel the team supported both sides of the garage equally today?” A flash of something — bitterness? — flickers across Oscar’s face. He hesitates a beat too long. “They did what they thought would get the best result. That’s their job, isn’t it? And I mean you just made the point that I came out alright.” He forces a smile, the kind that never touches his eyes. The reporter moves on, but the damage is done. It’s all being clipped and posted in real time.

Your interviews are cleaner. Brighter. You’re floating on the rhythm of the win — media-trained but glowing, composed but clearly proud. “Pole to P1. It looked like a flawless race from the outside,” Naomi Schiff says. You smile. “Thank you. It felt good. The car was fantastic, and I had a lot of confidence in our strategy. Races like this don’t come every weekend— so I’m soaking it in.” “And Oscar’s comeback? A double podium for McLaren—” “We both finished strong,” you answer evenly. “That’s great for the team and our lead in the constructors.” You leave it at that. Because you know Oscar’s spiraling, and you’ve decided not to reach for him anymore. Not after Miami. Not after Montréal. Not after that pathetic video of him in the Hilton bar last night, head down, red-faced, ranting at junior mechanics while half the paddock whispered about his unraveling. He wants to drown in it? Let him. The FIA press room is cold, sterile, filled with clicking cameras and international media voices layered like a discordant chorus. You sit in the center between Max and Oscar. The three of you could not look more different. Max is relaxed, cracking jokes about Baku still owing him a win. His red bull-branded water bottle spins lazily between his fingers. You sit tall, measured, back straight like a blade. Oscar’s hunched in his seat on the far side of the couch, eyes shadowed, face set in that disinterested blankness that fools nobody anymore. “Oscar,” a journalist from The Race starts carefully, “there’s been some discussion online following last night’s footage in the Hilton. Do you feel that pressure’s starting to mount this season?” Oscar scoffs — audibly. “I think people should stop believing every TikTok clip they see. A few drinks after a rough quali isn’t a crime.” “But paired with today’s performance and [Y/N]’s string of wins—” “Good for her, I’d say,” he snaps. The room quiets. “Do you feel supported by the team right now?” another asks. He leans forward, lips curling faintly. “You’d have to ask them, now wouldn’t you?” The microphone picks up the sarcasm. So do the cameras. Next to you, Max glances sideways. You can feel him trying not to wince. The situation is ridiculous “[Y/N],” someone turns to you, “you’re leading ahead of Oscar in the standings and just took your second win in a row. Do you feel like McLaren’s favor is shifting?” You answer without missing a beat. “I think the team wants two drivers performing at their best. I’m 100% committed to do my part.” You don’t even blink. You don’t need to. He’s already hanging himself with every word. Later, when you’re alone in your hotel room, post-press conference, you lie on the edge of the bed with your phone face-down beside you, listening to the muffled churn of the air conditioning. You saw the headlines flood in on the ride back: “Oscar Piastri: From Ice Man to Icarus?” “McLaren Fracture Worsens as [Y/N] Shines” “One’s winning. One’s wilting.” Twitter’s brutal. TikTok’s worse. F1WAGss and DeuxMoiGP have clips of Oscar slouched in a Hilton bar chair, arguing with a mechanic. His name is trending — for all the wrong reasons. Some fans pity him. Others call it karma. You read a comment that sticks with you: “You can’t pretend to be cold forever. Eventually it catches fire.” You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, still dressed in your papaya race shirt, still slightly damp from champagne, heart pounding with a silence you can’t explain. You should feel triumphant. Instead, you feel… hollow. Not for him. For the story of it. For what it was before everything cracked. You gave him chances. He gave you the cold shoulder. Now he’s freezing alone in public. And the worst part? You don’t feel sorry for him. Not anymore.

📍Baku City Circuit

liked by yourusername, f1 and 8.354.935 others

mclaren 🧡 Proud of both our drivers — especially [Y/N] for a flawless pole-to-win performance in the City of Winds. Catch you next in Singapore! 🇸🇬

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yourusername out here doing my job 🫡👑 thanks for the incredible support 🧡

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username1 what even was this race weekend?🧍‍♀️

username2 Oscar drinking at the Hilton bar pulling a comback drive the next and then [Y/N] winning Baku like it’s just another day in the office? What are they feeding them

username3 lowkey the [Y/N] x Max podium hug had ✨chemistry✨ but I’m not saying anything…

username4 we’re all ignoring that Oscar drove from P7 to P3��probably hungover and still made podium?? that’s crazy behavior

username5 "I can fix him" (but I’m starting to think [Y/N] doesn’t want to anymore 💔)

username6 This is the first weekend where I think Oscar genuinely cracked. [Y/N] has been outpacing him for weeks now and the upgrades clearly suit her. Combine that with Red Bull rumors and this weird post-podcast energy? McLaren’s in danger

arianabravo I would like to confirm that riding shotgun in a McLaren with [Y/N] at 300 kph is the fastest therapy session I’ve ever had 💅🧡

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username7 She said calm and collected and then lapped the grid with a smirk. Oscar’s still trying to find the bottom of that whiskey glass

username8 Baku delivered again. [Y/N] is showing title-worthy consistency. The real story isn’t Oscar cracking — it’s [Y/N] becoming unshakable

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THE KINDNESS SHE WEARS | tommy shelby

^ྀི pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

^ྀི genre: Hurt -> comfort, family angst, protective!tommy

^ྀི context: Tommy Shelby introduces his kind-hearted girlfriend to the family for the first time. While his brothers welcome her, Polly accuses her of being fake and too soft for Tommy’s world. Nearly in tears, she’s defended by Tommy, who makes it clear she’s the light in his life—and he won’t let anyone take that

^ྀི sophie speaks!: Yall im back in my peaky blinders phase again (i never left), ive got loads of Shelby brother fics in my drafts that i just need to edit. Im also going to be putting out more oneshots because i could literally write them in like 20-30 minutes and i haven’t posted in so long so i might do that tonight! 💋

divider: @firefly-graphics

You had heard so much about them. The infamous Shelby family.

And despite everything Tommy tried to do to protect you from their world—keeping you away from the betting shop, not bringing you to the Garrison when business was on, leaving out the more gruesome details of certain “jobs”—you knew this moment would come eventually.

Tonight was that moment.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tommy said gently in the car on the way to Arrow House, his hand resting softly on your thigh. He’d been glancing at you every few minutes, like he expected you to break.

“I want to,” you told him, your hand finding his. “I want them to know the version of you I know. And I want to know them too, Tommy.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just kissed your hand once, eyes on the road.

⸻

When you arrived, the brothers were already seated in the lounge with tumblers in hand, laughing over something Arthur was shouting about. Finn looked barely old enough to be in the room, but he brightened the moment he saw you.

“Bloody hell, this is the girl, Tom?” Arthur stood up with a whistle, eyes wide.

“Language,” Tommy muttered.

You smiled shyly, holding onto Tommy’s arm as he introduced you. “This is Y/N.”

Each brother greeted you warmly. Arthur, loud and charming. John, cheeky and grinning like a boy. Finn, bashful but sweet. You were instantly at ease, their banter oddly comforting.

You caught Polly’s eye from across the room, though.

She didn’t stand. She didn’t smile.

“Polly,” Tommy nodded, a little tenser now. “This is Y/N.”

She finally stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt before stepping closer. Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t.

“Lovely to meet you,” you said gently, offering your hand.

She took it—but only briefly.

“And what do you do, Y/N?” she asked. Not in the curious way most people do. In the I already don’t like you kind of way.

“I help out at the local clinic,” you answered, voice still sweet, still steady. “Mostly volunteer work. Children, mostly.”

“How sweet,” she said. Cold. “Helping poor children while holding the hand of the man who creates most of the orphans in Birmingham.”

You blinked. The sting landed hard.

Tommy tensed beside you, but you squeezed his arm softly, signaling that you were fine. That you could handle it.

The brothers glanced at each other awkwardly.

“Well, isn’t that just the sort of contradiction life’s made of,” you said, quietly. “Balance, I suppose.”

Arthur raised a brow, impressed. “She’s got a tongue on her, eh?”

Polly’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

⸻

Later, the boys moved outside to smoke and talk. Tommy lingered, but you gave him a gentle nod. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Call if you need me.”

The moment the door shut behind them, Polly rose from her chair.

“You can drop the act now, love.”

You turned toward her, confused. “I’m sorry?”

She stepped closer. “The whole sweet little angel bit. That wide-eyed innocence. It’s either fake, or you’re too stupid to be near him.”

“Excuse me?” your voice cracked ever so slightly.

“You think I haven’t seen girls like you?” Polly scoffed. “Girls who think they can ‘fix’ men like Thomas. You’ll cry the moment blood touches your pretty shoes. Or worse—you’ll stay, and you’ll rot from the inside out.”

“I know what he does,” you whispered, “and I stay because I love him.”

“You don’t know him,” she snapped. “You know the version he lets you see.”

You felt your heart twisting in your chest, hands trembling slightly at your sides. You tried to speak again, but your voice caught—and Polly noticed.

“Oh,” she said softly, “there it is. There’s the truth. Just a little girl pretending to walk with wolves.”

Tommy’s voice cut through like a blade:

“Pol.”

You both froze.

He was standing in the doorway, cigarette pinched between his fingers, but completely forgotten. His jaw was tight. His eyes fixed on you first—your glossy eyes, the way you were biting the inside of your cheek not to cry.

Then he looked at Polly.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“She needs to know,” Polly said, lifting her chin. “She needs to know this isn’t a fairytale.”

“No,” he said, cold now. “What you need to know is I choose who I bring into this family. And I chose her.”

Polly opened her mouth, but Tommy stepped forward, shielding you slightly as he addressed her.

“She’s the only good thing I’ve got left that hasn’t been tainted by everything else in my life. She’s kind, and she’s light, and you don’t get to dim that just because you’re too broken to believe it’s real.”

You could barely breathe.

“Come on,” he said gently to you, brushing a hand down your back as he turned you toward the door. “We’re going.”

You looked back at Polly, not in anger—but in quiet sorrow. And she saw it. She saw you weren’t acting. That your pain wasn’t dramatics. That you were real.

⸻

Later, in Tommy’s room, you sat in silence by the fire.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his hand wrapped tightly around yours. “I should’ve known. She doesn’t trust easily.”

“She doesn’t scare me,” you whispered.

He looked at you sideways.

“She hurt me, yes,” you continued, “but I’m not leaving, Tommy.”

His brows drew together, emotion flickering in those glacier blue eyes.

“I know who you are,” you said. “All of you. The man, the gangster, the broken parts too. I know. And I stay.”

Tommy kissed you then, slow and deep and grateful, like he didn’t deserve it, but was starving for it all the same.

[gaintsnowflake]

❆ MAZES

PAIRING : tim drake x gn!reader

ONESHOT : within a maze the truth will finally surface

WARNINGS : kidnapping, both human and animal death, canon violence, minipulation, and other content are discussed if not directly shown. A/N : no comfort, only hurt. angstangstangst. tim is an asshole (he was trying to protect you)

masterlist

     “TIM?” You screamed his name again. And again. Your voice tearing at your throat, fraying like old cloth in the wind. It wasn’t until the fifth cry that he answered. Faint and far, swallowed by the living maze that shifted in front of you like something breathing.

     “Where are you?” His voice was distant. Hazy. The hedges twisted in response, curling away from his sound like they, too, didn’t want you to find him. 

     “I— I don’t know…” Voice cracking, quieting as your eyes searched, looking, yearning for any distinctive features around you. 

     He muttered something under his breath— a name maybe, or a curse— then louder, “Stay there. I’ll find you.”

      And then, you were alone. Surrounded by silence. Only interrupted by the rustle of hedges rearranging themselves with a whispering hiss. Like serpents slithering through leaves. You didn’t touch them. You wouldn’t. They felt wrong. Afraid to feel its sharp edges, scared it might pull you in and never let you go. 

       Yet you walked along them, tracing its movements. Slowly. Carefully. 

       Then a turn. A dead end. And a cat. Small. Soft. Emerging from the green like it had always been part of it. A slip of paper clutched in its teeth.

       You crouched down, hesitating. The cat was warm. Real. Its purr rumbled the moment your fingers brushed its fur. A comfort you hadn’t realized you missed.

       Then you heard it. Long before you saw it. The arrow came first. The blood followed.

       You could only allow yourself to move backwards. Hand still gripping around the paper. Eyes wide as you were forced to watch. Forced to watch its last breath. 

       The dead thing at your feet a reminder. A warning.

        You haven’t escaped. You do not know who your kidnappers are. Where you have been taken. Or what they could possibly want. But you knew Tim was here, with you. 

        They wanted you to know that. They wanted you aware that you were taken together, as if they wanted you to know it couldn’t be done without the other. That it wasn’t just one of you they wanted. It wasn’t an issue with Red Robin or Batman. No. It was something deeper. Something more personal. That’s why they took you when you were in your apartment. It’s why they waited until neither of you deemed the superhero costumes. They waited until you were truly yourselves. 

        And now, they have handed you a message. Two of them, one written in the paper. One that lays within the dead cat, a reminder that they are in control here. A reminder that you are at their will. 

        A reminder that time is ticking… and death? Death will soon find you. 

        The hedge in front of you moving tore you from your head. 

        The shake in your hand slowed you while unraveling the paper. Its edges frayed. Blood marked the bottom corner, a fingerprint in red. The handwriting old. Worn away over the years. Tears stained and smudged writing.

        “Two hearts entwined, but bound by lies,

         The door won't open while silence hides.” 

       You whispered it aloud. Once. Twice. The words clung to the air, heavy and strange, like a riddle meant for someone else but cruelly gifted to you.

       The hedge in front of you stirred again— not gently this time. It groaned as it twisted, parting like a mouth preparing to speak. And suddenly, the path ahead didn’t feel like salvation.

       It felt like an invitation.

       Waiting beyond was no longer twisting greens, but rather, a door. An old, wooden, chipped door, warped with age. Faint lights pulsed from beneath it, like something inside was breathing in the dark.

        It called your name. And you listened. You stepped forward.

        The cat’s blood still drying on your fingers. The paper clenched in your palm like a lifeline. Every part of your body screamed to turn back. But the silence was louder now. It no longer gave you a choice. 

        The door creaked open with barely a touch.

         It wasn’t what you expected. No chains, no dungeons.

         A room. Familiar. Terrifying in its familiarity.

         Your apartment. But not your apartment. Not now. It was wrong. Too still. Too perfect. A moment stolen from the past, preserved like a butterfly pinned under glass.

        You stepped inside. The photos on the wall… they were real. One of you and Tim on the couch, hair messy, pizza box balanced between your knees. Another of him asleep on your shoulder, the city lights through the window casting shadows across his face. The sweater draped over the chair? Yours. The one you thought you lost last fall. The center of the room held only one thing: a table. On it, a small recorder. Old, dusty. But the red light blinked, waiting.

        You pressed play.

       “If you're hearing this…” Tim’s voice, but younger. Unsure. Tired in a way that didn't come from lack of sleep. “…then they found it. They found us.” A pause. Breathing. “I told myself it wasn’t love. That it couldn’t be. But maybe that’s why it hurts like this. Because I knew it was.”

      Static crackled, swallowing the rest. But you knew what came next. Not on the tape… but in life, after it.

     The start of your relationship. You memorized his words, so long ago. You found it before it made sense, still now you don’t understand who would find you. Only knowing that he loves you.

     The air felt heavy, thick. They had dug it up, paraded it in front of you, and locked you inside it. Not to haunt you, but to remind you. That the truth always found its way through. That no matter how far you ran from it… it never stopped chasing.

     The door slammed shut behind you.

     The room didn’t look threatening, but that only made it worse. It was comforting. Designed to disarm you. Wrapped in memories like a silk noose.     You turned slowly, eyes scanning everything again. But this time, you weren’t looking at what belonged to you. You were looking for what didn’t.

     And that’s when you saw it. The bookshelf. Top row. A journal. Not yours. Not Tim’s style either, too ornate, too old. Leather bound, no title. The kind of thing meant to be hidden. Meant to be found only by someone who knew to look for it. 

     You reached for it, your fingers grazing the edge. Dust clung to it like it had been sitting untouched for years. But there was no dust anywhere else in the room.

     This had been planted. You opened it. The handwriting inside was sharp. Familiar. Not Tim’s. Not yours. But the words… the words were yours.

     Transcripts. Pages of old conversations. Ones you barely remembered having. Scrawled-out entries. Notes. Observations. Surveillance.

     Each page detailed things no one should’ve known. Where you went. When you slept. Who you talked to. Even the moment you found the recording— that was here too.

     You flipped further, faster now. Then… one page stopped you.

“Subject D.” Redacted from Watchlist 04-B by Temporary Agent Red Robin, citing “emotional compromise.” Override approved under Silent Protocol.

Drake has since failed to disclose Subject D’s reclassification. Physical closeness and emotional codependency continue to deepen. Mission risk elevated. Potential liability confirmed.

    A symbol stamped at the bottom. Not the Bat. Not the League. Something older. Governmental. Deep black-ops.

    You swallowed hard, the truth pressing down like ice in your veins. You weren’t just kidnapped. You were being watched. Studied. And Tim… Tim had been involved long before you knew. Not because he wanted to betray you— but because he already had.

     He pulled you off the radar.  He chose to keep you hidden. Because you weren’t meant to exist. You were a subject. A variable.

     He hadn’t just fallen in love. He had interfered.

     And now the people who wanted you both… they weren’t criminals. They were the ones cleaning up the mess. The tape wasn’t the secret.

    You were.

     Tim’s hands were bloodied. Not his. Not yours. But someone else's, someone who had been in his way. 

     He knelt over the broken body of a guard in full tactical gear, chest rising and falling in fast, shallow bursts. The hedge maze behind him had closed again, trapping the man inside, unconscious. Or maybe worse. It didn’t matter.

     Not compared to the sound he’d heard minutes earlier; your voice, faint and far, like it was already slipping away from him again.

     He pressed the comm on his wrist. Static. Still no signal. They were jamming him, or worse, isolating you.

     He swore under his breath, fingers twitching like they wanted to find something to punch. But there was no time to get angry. Because they knew. They had to know.

     The file. The override. The erased logs. The favors he pulled to keep your name off every record that mattered. All the lies. All the pieces he thought he could control.

     It was unraveling. And now they were playing a different game. This wasn’t about leverage. Or bait. They weren’t using you to get to him. They were using him to destroy you.

     Just like they planned all those years ago. Before the complications. Before he marked the mission as abandoned. Before he lied. Saying you fled. Claiming you couldn’t be found. While he laid in your bed every night. Pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Pretending the lie was love. And love… wasn’t a lie.

     You stared at the page. At the stamp. That word: Compromise. It echoed in your ribs. Sharp. Unrelenting. A breath shuddered out of you, and it wasn’t until then you realized you were shaking.

      Not because of the journal. Not because of what you read. Because deep down… some part of you had already known.

      A soft click behind you made everything feel more real. As the apartment— the illusion, the echo of it— shifted. Changing as if you were watching your life all over again. It looked just as it did when you left.

      And then: footsteps. Familiar. Weight carried in a way you knew in your bones. You didn’t turn. Not right away. Because turning meant facing it. Facing him.

     “...You read it.” His voice was hoarse. Almost small. You could hear the blood in it, thick at the back of his throat, the cost of whatever fight he’d just survived to get here. You swallowed. Tight. Painful. 

      “Not all of it.” Pause. “But enough.”

      You turned. And there he was.

      Not Red Robin. Not the mask. Not the mission. Just Tim.

      Hair matted to his forehead, sweat and dirt streaking his skin. Eyes wide, haunted. Like the weight of every word you just read had carved itself across his back years ago, and only now had you seen the scars. He took one step, stopping himself.

      “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

      “No,” you said. “You didn’t want me to find out at all.”

      That landed. His shoulders folded in slightly, like they couldn’t hold the rest of him up anymore.

      “I tried to protect you,” he said.

        You threw the journal down between you. It landed with a thud too loud for the soft carpet it hit.

       “You lied to me.” Your voice cracked. “You made me believe it was a choice. That all of this— us— was real.”

       “It was— is real.”

       “Then why is my name in a file, Tim? Why is my life marked Subject D?! Why did you erase me?”

       He moved, then. Fast. Desperate. 

      “Because they were going to kill you.”

      That stopped you.

     “I don’t mean scare, I don’t mean threaten, I mean erase. Quiet. No headlines. No traces. Just gone. They said you were a danger to the world. They hired me to find your vulnerability." His voice broke. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.”

     He took a breath that didn’t fill his lungs.

     “So I made you disappear. On paper. On every database I had access to. You weren’t in the reports because I deleted you. I buried your name under favors and lies and firewalls. You were gone.” He looked at you. “But you were safe.”

     You didn’t know what to say. Because part of you understood. And part of you still wanted to scream. Because he made that choice alone. 

    “I didn’t fall in love with an altruist,” you said, quieter now. “I fell in love with someone who looked me in the eye and promised I could trust him.”

    “I broke that,” he said. No defense. No excuses. Just the truth. “I know.”

    You both stood there, in the stillness between everything said and everything unsaid.

     And then, a hum. A low, mechanical hum. The air shimmered.

     A rift opened in the far wall, black and blinking with glitching static. A doorway. The maze was reacting. To the truth. To you.

     Above it, carved in light: “Only what is faced can be freed.”

     You stared at the door. Then back at him.

     “Tell me one more thing,” you said. His lips parted. But you beat him to it. “Would you do it again?”

     The silence before his answer was unbearable. 

    “No,” he said. “Not if it meant losing you like this.”

     You looked down at your hands. At the blood still dried along your knuckles from the cat. The tape still clenched in your pocket. The pages of the journal littered behind you like wreckage.You turned to the door. Tim stepped beside you. You didn’t take his hand. But you didn’t stop him from walking with you either. You stepped through— together.

     Expecting to taste freedom. Expecting to be bathed in sunlight. Expecting, maybe, the illusion to crack fully and reveal something warm beneath it all. Instead, you walked into a silence sharper than gunfire.

     A long corridor. Cold, sterile. Lined with figures in black, motionless as statues. Their armor bore no logos you recognized. Only one symbol— sharp, angular, etched in gray. The same one that stained the bottom of the journal page.

     You stopped. Tim did too.

     And there, at the end of the line— a man. Unarmed. Barehanded. His stance said authority. His eyes said calculation. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. But when he spoke, his voice cut through everything.

     “Give her up, Tim.”

      Four words. Simple. Final. Inevitable.

      Your heart skipped.  Not out of surprise, but recognition. It wasn’t a demand. It was a protocol. Tim didn’t look at you. His jaw clenched. 

     “I burned my clearance for this,” he said, low, measured. “I shredded files. I deleted her from your system. She is not a hazard. Not anymore.”

     The man’s face didn’t change.

      “That wasn’t your call.”

     Silence stretched like wire pulled tight.

     “You were compromised the moment you fell for her.”

     Tim stepped forward. “No. I was compromised the moment I realized you were willing to erase people just to keep control.”

     A flicker of emotion crossed the man’s face. Not guilt. Not regret. Disappointment.

    “Don’t make this worse than it already is, Red Robin.”

    Tim reached for his belt— slowly, deliberately— showing his hands. No weapons drawn. But his body tensed like a wire ready to snap.

    “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

    The soldiers flinched. A subtle movement, but trained. Programmed. Prepped for escalation. You took a breath and stepped between them. 

    “I’m not a thing,” you said. “Not a code. Not a case file. Not a threat to neutralize.”

     No one answered. No one needed to. The man’s silence was enough. He looked past you. To Tim. “Last chance.”

    Tim’s voice didn’t waver.

    “I already chose her.”

    And then the lights went out. All at once. No flicker. No warning.

    Just a plunge into black— thick and electric— and then the sound of boots scuffling, weapons shifting, orders shouted into void. And Tim’s hand finally found yours.

    But before you could squeeze back, you felt it. Right in your chest.     Knocking you so far back you weren’t sure you were on Earth anymore. You thought getting shot in the chest would be quick. But you felt as your back hit the floor, pressure running down your spine. You felt as your hands lost Tim’s grip. You felt as blood escaped your body, before it crept up your throat. You tasted the metal in your mouth. Heard the firing of another shot. A thump next to your ear. 

    You barely turned, vision blurred. But you could make out that face any day. 

    Tim laid next to you now, like he did every night. But this time, when you felt your breaths combine, there wasn’t any after. 

[ineedhands]

sydcarmy headcanons

note: this is written with no established relationship in mind and around the development time of the bear. spent so long looking at this debating whether it was ooc but oh well it’s out here now! might make some of these into little fics/oneshots? first time posting my writing too, im scareddddd!

warnings: none i don’t think? lmk in comments if there is any :)

𝜗𝜚 carmy is very affectionate in the privacy of his or sydney’s home, or anywhere that it’s just the two of them. he’s not about pda past hand holding, hugging, and maybe brief kisses, and neither is she. within work, carmen doesn’t show much physical affection, our boy likes his privacy, and he’d like to save himself the awkward moment in front of his staff, or god forbid, richie.

𝜗𝜚 he looooves warming his hands underneath her clothes. he’ll come up behind her while she’s making a dish that they’d developed for the menu, and his hands will slip gently under her hoodie. he never acknowledges it, just lets his thumbs smooth over her hips. sometimes if he’s wanting to annoy her or make her jump, he’ll place cold hands on the back of her neck, which prompts a colourful insult from syd.

𝜗𝜚 it was sydney who made the first move. like actual move, not just the yearning stares and making dishes inspired by the other person. it was when they were over at carmy’s brainstorming for the bear’s menu and carmy offered her to stay the night. he was gonna take the sofa, BUT she was feeling sleep deprived and bold, so decided on a cheeky “it’s kinda cold out and it’s literally your place. would be bad of me to kick you onto the sofa when we could share? maybe?” long story short, she kissed him goodnight, leaving him very happy. though the next day at work, he embarrassingly had to keep stepping out because whenever he’d talk to her, he’d start stumbling over his words and thinking about her kiss.

𝜗𝜚 carmy is more reliant on sydney than he wishes to admit. she is his muse, his partner, his ‘friend’ (yeah right buddy boy) but most importantly, she can stand on her own two feet and is her own person. we see in worms that she has a life outside of the restaurant, unlike carmy, who lets it consume him. she doesn’t speak to him at all for one whole service and he’s already fucked up and repeating that he doesn’t like the feeling, whereas she can and will shut him off if he’s becoming too much for her to cope with while trying to get through her shift.

𝜗𝜚 sydney secretly loves carmy getting jealous. does it piss her off in large, over-the-top gestures of jealousy? yes. she is independent and carmy’s jealousy can sometimes take that feeling of independence away. however, just the little things, like i know for a fact he gets more touchy with syd around luca — because that man has chemistry with everyone let’s be real — and she loves it. a peck on the cheek, a gentle, tattooed hand on her lower back, it all means a lot to her, makes her feel wanted.

𝜗𝜚 syd also loves when carmy acknowledges how good he is at what he does. she’d go blue in the face if it meant wasting every last breath on telling people how talented he is. she literally gushed to donna about how amazing her son is at his job.

thanks for reading .ᐟ꩜.° ✮

[writingravencove]

I have a Rise fic idea :)

We all know those fics were Leo spends more than two minutes in the prison dimension, yes?

What about the reverse? He was there only for two minutes, but the time that passed for his family and friends? It was more. So much more time.

They've spent weeks, months, years, thinking that Leo was dead.

But that's better than being gone forever, right?

[soldmygenderforglitter]

Tumblr please please please hear me out for a Saja boys x gender neutral manger human reader. I so badly want to take matter into my own hands write it myself, but my hands are kinda full atm with wips.

[marlsswrites]

Regulus studying: James coming up from behind him and wrapping his arms around Regulus: Regulus: James, what are you doing? James: I'm being your personal blanket. Regulus: ...Can you be a blanket that helps me with charms homework? James shaking his head: Blankets don't study. Regulus smiling: sigh

[emmg]

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance," Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[snowstormarts]

I CRAVE Timothy Timepiece HC's 💔💔💔 please

Not going to lie I am someone who 100% went down the Timmy line and never looked back at Timothy but on my Friendship run I will try to learn more about him ^^ For now have some general headcanons for him!

Timothy Timepiece Headcanons 🐱🕰

[Divider Credit]

- Timothy has a strict, set in stone sleeping time that he will push onto you or at least try to, if you're close with him he will confess that he can't sleep well at Night until he knows you're also asleep, safe in bed snoozing away

- He can meow, not the "Nya" but genuine cat meowing but it only comes out when he's either heavily in distress, super annoyed or really, really want your attention (if him speaking to you, ignoring you, pouting and such dosent work it's his last resort option basically)

- Amir once showed him his own reflection and he will forever deny it but he puffed up and growled at his own reflection for a minute before swatting at it and running away

- Best guy to have around if you need help with time blindness, he can estimate how long something might take or be there to help you remember important times (Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner, reminders to drink something, important chores, ect) he quiet enjoys it and takes pride in it, if you do thank/praise him he will start to purr, loudly

- He's friends with Mac, Dolly, Mateo, Daisuke and gets along just well enough with Wyndowlyn that Timmy can nap on her

[luckyartdrawer]

Made a lil someone for a server event on discord :3c

Such a pensive guy... I wonder what sorts of thoughts run through his head now that he's out of the Plex?

[cameforstuff]

Ford becomes an opossum

[cod-thoughts]

“Thought you’d sleep in for once,” Ghost muttered, leaning down to meet Price’s lips in a lazy kiss. It wasn’t rushed—just a slow, easy press of their mouths, like they had all the time in the world.

“Couldn’t,” Price murmured against him, his hands finding Ghost’s hip. He tugged him closer, their noses brushing together as Ghost kissed him again, deeper this time. Price’s grip tightened, but there was nothing hurried about it, just deliberate and steady, as if he was memorising every detail.

Ghost huffed softly when they pulled apart, the sound low and amused. “You’re insatiable, old man.”

“Damn right,” Price shot back, his thumb tracing slow circles against Ghost’s hip. “You’re the one who came in here lookin’ like that. Can’t be helped.”

Ghost shook his head, but there was no real heat behind it, just the faintest curve of his lips, knowing he wasn't wearing anything special. He leaned in again, his fingers slipping under the collar of Price’s shirt, brushing against bare skin. Their mouths met in another kiss, slower this time, like the kindling of a fire, warmth spreading between them with every touch.

Then it happened. Ghost shifted his weight, leaning into Price a little too much as Price tugged him forward. He stumbled, landing hard in Price’s lap, chair creaking underneath them, his thighs bracketing Price’s hips as the two of them froze for a moment, faces inches apart.

“Fuckin' hell,” Ghost muttered, his hands braced on Price’s shoulders as the faintest flush crept up his neck.

Price, for his part, looked completely unbothered—if anything, the grin spreading across his face was downright wolfish. “Now this,” he said, his hands sliding up to Ghost’s waist, “is a sight I could get used to.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes, his voice low and rough. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?” Price replied, his gaze flickering over Ghost—his broad shoulders, the way his muscular thighs framed Price’s hips, the faint pink staining the tops of his cheeks. “Should’ve done this soon as you came in. Hell, I should have you like this all the time.”

“Thought this morning was enough for you,” Ghost shot back, his voice a teasing growl, though the flush on his face deepened.

Price’s eyes darkened, his grin turning into something hungrier. “Not even close.” Wrapping his arms around Ghost’s waist, pulling him down just enough that their bodies pressed together, the solid weight of Ghost against him making Price groan softly. “You’ve no idea how fucking good you look right now.”

Ghost opened his mouth to retort, but Price didn’t give him the chance. He surged up, capturing Ghost’s lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was feral, desperate, all teeth and tongue as if Price couldn’t get enough of him. Ghost let out a low, surprised sound, his hands slipping up Price’s shoulders to his jaw as the kiss deepened.

Price’s hands roamed, one sliding up Ghost’s back to tangle in his hair, the other gripping his thigh, fingers digging into muscle as if to anchor him there. Ghost groaned, the sound muffled against Price’s mouth, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. His hips shifted instinctively, pressing harder against Price, who growled in response.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Price muttered, his voice rough and breathless as he pulled back just enough to drag his teeth along Ghost’s jaw. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath Ghost’s ear, biting down lightly before soothing the mark with his tongue.

Ghost shivered, his fingers slightly tightening around Price’s jaw. “Thought you could handle it, Captain.”

“Handle you?” Price’s laugh was dark, his lips brushing against Ghost’s throat. “Barely.”

The room felt hotter, the air between them thick with want as their movements grew more frantic. Price’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of Ghost’s spine, squeezing his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer. Ghost leaned into it, his breath hitching as Price’s teeth scraped against his collarbone.

“John,” Ghost rasped, his voice strained, his usual composure cracking under the heat of Price’s attention.

“Tell me,” Price said, his voice a low growl as he kissed him again, biting at his lower lip before dragging him impossibly closer. “Tell me what you want, love.”

Ghost didn’t answer with words. Instead, he kissed Price with a desperation that said everything, his body pressing against him as if trying to fuse them together. Price groaned into his mouth, his hands sliding to Ghost’s ass, urging him to roll his hips into a sinful grind.

Whatever playful teasing had been between them was long gone, replaced by something raw and consuming. Snaking a hand into Ghost's hair, Price pulled him back with a gasp and looked up at Ghost, his chest heaving, his brown eyes burning with want as he took in the sight of his lover—flushed, ruffled, and completely his.

[iattachtooeasilytocartoons]

gods i wish race to the edge could’ve been pg-13, there are so many storylines that could be made just that much better with a little blood or a threat actually happening. specifically in season 3 episode 1, when Dagur and Hiccup are trying to heal Toothless from the dragon root. At one point they get captured, and the hunters threaten to brand Hiccup with the mark of the dragon hunters. Do you know the damage that would’ve done? having the knowledge that he, the one who has almost never hurt a dragon, and never unless in a dire situation, would have the mark of the very people he fights against? The son of the chief, the only one to tame a night fury, marked by the people who are the reason he’s the last one?? imagine the breakdown?? the anger towards Viggo?? oh my god i would eat it up

[crunchyspaghetti]

Ok so I know it’s well established that Phil Coulson enjoys a good tropic vacation (so much that it’s used to overwrite his traumatic brain surgery), so you can yell at me in the tags for my ensuing headcanon

but like… I can picture Phil Coulson as a lake vacation/weekend getaway Dad so clearly. Now, this could just be because he is from the upper Midwest and there’s nothing midwesterners love more than a dorky lake getaway (I say with love, as midwesterner, though very very south of Coulson’s home state of Wisconsin)

I could totally see him posted up in his swim trunks on the shore with a beer and a folding lawn chair with his sunglasses on. Or taking the Bus Kids ™️ tubing and gunning the engine of the boat so they all have to hold on for dear life.

[myokk]

My drawing gremlin days are coming back so here is some of the art I’ve done this last week and a half♥️♥️♥️ LOT of pencil, ballpoint pen, and some digital art WIPs when it gets dark/im on the train🫶