#rain world flag requests | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amirasainz · 8 months ago

Note

Can you do driver reader, that is one of the driver that crashes during the Brazil race and causes a red flag. Can she be hurt (broken arm or smth)

I love your blog so much🤌🔥

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

Rain

The sound of rain drummed steadily against the asphalt, creating a chaotic symphony that echoed throughout the Interlagos circuit. It was the Brazilian Grand Prix, and the atmosphere was electric, charged with anticipation and anxiety. Yn, the first female driver for RedBull, sat in her car on the grid, heart racing, fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. She glanced at the wet track ahead and could feel the tension in the air, punctuated by the distant rumble of thunder.

“Okay, Yn, focus,” her race engineer JD's voice crackled through the radio, breaking her concentration. “It’s going to be tricky out there. We’ve already seen a couple of red flags, and the conditions are only getting worse. Just take it slow, especially in the first few laps.”

“Got it, JD. I’m just going to keep my head down and stay out of trouble,” she replied, trying to mask the nerves creeping into her voice.

“Remember, we’re in it for the long game. You’re in second, just behind Max. Let’s see how it plays out, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll be careful. Thanks!” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The lights went out, and she surged forward, gripping the wheel tightly as she navigated the treacherous turns.

The rain poured relentlessly, causing visibility to plummet. The roar of engines mixed with the sound of rain, creating an overwhelming cacophony. As they completed the first lap, Yn found herself trailing closely behind Max. The two Red Bull cars danced across the slick track, carving their paths through the rain.

“Good job, Yn. Keep up with Max,” JD encouraged as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the corners.

But the rain was unforgiving. A few laps later, a sudden jolt of loss of traction sent her heart into her throat.

“JD! I’m slipping!” she shouted, trying to regain control of the car.

“Stay calm, Yn! Just counter-steer!” JD’s voice was urgent, but Yn could feel the tires struggling for grip on the waterlogged track. Suddenly, the car spun wildly, and before she knew it, her heart sank as the barriers rushed toward her.

BANG!

The impact reverberated throughout her body, and her vision blurred. The world outside turned chaotic; sirens blared, and officials waved red flags frantically.

************************************************

In the hospital, Yn was conscious but barely coherent. Her body ached, and she felt detached from reality as the medical staff worked quickly around her. She heard snippets of conversation, the beeping of machines, and the distant sounds of the race still going on outside.

Meanwhile, the other drivers were huddled in the waiting room, anxiety etched on their faces. Lando paced back and forth, glancing toward the door every few seconds.

“Why isn’t there any news yet?” he asked, running a hand through his damp hair.

“They’re probably just being thorough,” George said, trying to keep his tone light, though his worry was evident. “She’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

“Yeah, but she’s only eighteen,” Carlos added, looking serious. “It shouldn’t have happened. She was doing so well.”

“Max is taking it hard,” Charles mentioned, nodding toward the corner where Max sat silently, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Just then, the door swung open, and a doctor stepped out. “You’re here for Yn Ln, right? She’s stable, but she’s in pretty bad shape. Five broken ribs and a concussion. She’s asleep right now but is being monitored closely. We’ll let you in shortly.”

The relief was palpable, but worry still clouded the room. They exchanged glances, each trying to mask their fear for their young friend and competitor.

***************************************************

After what felt like an eternity, they were finally allowed to see her. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air as they entered the dimly lit room. Yn lay in the hospital bed, her face pale but peaceful, a tangle of wires and machines surrounding her. Flowers adorned the table next to her, a bouquet of vibrant blooms brightening the otherwise stark room.

“Look at her,” Lando whispered, stepping forward. “She looks so small.”

“She’s a fighter,” Max said quietly, his eyes glistening. He stepped closer to the bed, placing a hand on the railing. “I should have told her to back off. I should have been more careful.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Max,” Carlos said gently, joining him. “The conditions were terrible.”

George stepped up, looking around. “We should leave her something. Something to remind her we’re all here for her.”

They began placing little tokens around her bedside: a signed card from Lando, a miniature trophy from George, a chilli plushie from Carlos.

“Hey, Yn,” Charles said softly, leaning down so his face was closer to hers. “We’re all here. Just take your time to heal, okay?” Charles moved a bit to the left, placing the flowers with the rest of the things.

Then, Ollie, Yn’s bets friend and partner in crime, stepped forward, his expression softening. He took her hand gently, brushing back a stray hair from her forehead. “You’re going to be alright. Just rest, and we’ll be right here when you wake up.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment as emotion washed over him.

A moment of silence fell over them as they stood vigil by her bedside. The beeping of the machines was a constant reminder of her fragility, but they knew she was strong.

“Can you believe she’s just eighteen and already racing with us?” Lando finally broke the silence, trying to lighten the mood. “I can’t even imagine what I was doing at that age.”

“Probably playing video games,” Ollie teased lightly, earning a chuckle from the others despite the somber atmosphere.

“She’s got so much talent,” Carlos said, glancing back at Yn. “And she’s got all of us rooting for her. That’s what matters.”

Max nodded, his gaze still locked on Yn. “She’s going to bounce back. I believe that.”

The hours passed slowly, filled with whispered conversations and laughter tinged with worry as they reminisced about the race and their shared moments on the track. They each took turns sharing stories, hoping to fill the room with positivity, so Yn could feel the love surrounding her.

Finally, as the night wore on, exhaustion crept in. One by one, they began to drift off, still seated in their chairs, leaving her surrounded by the warmth of friendship, waiting for her to wake up.

****************************************************

As the first light of dawn broke through the clouds, illuminating the hospital room with a gentle glow, Yn stirred slightly in her sleep. The sound of soft murmurs and familiar laughter filtered through her consciousness.

“Look! I think she’s waking up!” George exclaimed softly, shaking Lando awake.

Max leaned forward, his eyes brightening. “Yn, can you hear us?”

With a small groan, Yn blinked open her eyes, squinting at the faces around her. “Ollie?” she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes! I'm here,buba! We’re here! You’re safe,” Ollie said, his eyes widening with relief, taking her hand in his, softly stroking her hair from her face.

“Hey, don’t try to move too much, petite,” Charles advised, noticing her attempt to sit up. “You’ve had a rough night.”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“You crashed,” Lando said, trying to keep his tone light. “But you’re tough. You’ve got some broken ribs and a concussion, but you’ll be back on track before you know it.”

Yn closed her eyes for a moment, trying to process everything. “I remember slipping… and then nothing.”

“It’s okay. You’re here now,” Carlos reassured her. “We’ve all been waiting for you to wake up. You scared us, hermana.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as the reality of her situation washed over her. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to keep up.”

Max stepped forward, his expression softening. “You did great, Yn. You’re going to come back from this even stronger.”

“Yeah, and we’ll all be right behind you,” George added, his voice filled with sincerity.

The warmth of their presence surrounded her, giving her the strength she needed. “Thank you, guys. I—I really appreciate it.”

“Rest now,” Ollie said, squeezing her hand gently. “We’ll be here when you wake up again.”

And as Yn drifted back into a peaceful sleep, she felt the undeniable bond of her paddock family.

#formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #driver!reader #xoxo babygirl 💋#max verstappen x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #carlos sainz x reader #george russell x reader #oliver bearman x reader #brazil #bazil gp #são paulo 2024

715 notes · View notes

heyitspapayaontop · 21 days ago

Text

Second Sector

Request: anon !

Pairing: Dad!Lando Norris x Driver!Son!Reader

Themes: Angst

Warnings: car crash, injury description (nothing graphic), near death/mentions of it, medical mentions

Summary: after y/n suffered a terrifying crash at the Red Bull ring, Lando has to figure out what to do. Calming his son/ (More himself though.) And working on helping him heal.

A/N: no names of actual current f4 drivers were said bc its in the near-ish future and reader is apt 14, do some math if you'd like but don't think tm act it!! there will be a part two to this specific one, but I couldn't finish it atm, this is as far as my motivation can go sorry! enjoy!

Saturday at the Red Bull Ring.

The Red Bull Ring—man, it’s gorgeous in that “might kill you if you blink” kind of way. All those rolling green hills and sneaky dips, blind corners just waiting to ruin someone’s afternoon. It’s the sort of place that keeps everyone’s nerves jangling, mechanics and dads alike.

Lando Norris stood there on the pit wall, arms tight across his chest, McLaren hoodie on, but he wasn't looking at the scenery. Not even glancing at the track, really. His eyes were glued to Car #17. His kid.

Y/N had been on it all weekend. Quick as hell in practice. Didn’t flinch in the rain. Nailed qualifying. But something felt off this morning. Not just the car—him, too. Different edge.

“Still got the Red Bull kid rattling around in your head?” Lando threw it out there, eyes still locked on the timing screen.

Y/N’s voice came over the radio, dry as toast. “No.”

Yeah, right. Lando knew a fib from his kid a mile off.

Friday – The Day Before

FP2 was a mess.

Turn 3—classic. Y/N dived for the inside. Elias Voss, the Red Bull Academy’s newest wonderboy, tried to hang it round the outside. Neither of them lifted. So, naturally, Y/N’s front wing went bye-bye, and Voss got a face full of gravel.

Cue drama. Voss’s team was fuming. “Reckless!” “Entitled!” All the greatest hits.

Stewards called it just a racing thing, but the paddock loved to gossip.

“Bet Norris thinks he’s untouchable now.”

“Silver spoon, gets away with anything.”

Y/N heard every word. Pretended he didn’t.

Back to Saturday

Lap 14.

Everything goes sideways.

Happens in a blink, as usual.

Voss is right there again, lining him up into Turn 3. Déjà vu.

Lando leans in, practically chewing his nails. “Don’t fight it too hard,” he mutters. “Let him screw up.”

But Y/N? He’s not backing out.

Tires touch. That sound—metal, rubber, chaos. Smoke. Debris everywhere.

Car #17 launches, spins, smacks the barriers so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Even the engineers stagger back, pale.

The whole world just… stops.

“Red flag. Red flag. Medical team dispatched.”

Lando’s off like a shot. Doesn’t care about credentials or radios or anyone yelling at him. He’s running, pure dad mode.

The Wreck

Marshals’ve already swarmed the mess. Wheel over here. Halo’s got a nasty crack. The car’s twisted in ways it shouldn’t be.

Lando shoves through the crowd and finds him.

Y/N’s slumped over, helmet askew, not moving.

“Y/N!” Lando drops, knees on tarmac. “Hey, buddy, c’mon. Open your eyes, look at me.”

Medic grabs him, pulls him back. “We need space, possible spinal.”

Lando stumbles away, can’t breathe, just staring at the kid in the mangled car.

Time crawls.

Then—was that a twitch? A noise? Yeah. Y/N’s alive.

Hospital – Graz University Clinic

Broken arm, cracked ribs, concussion, bruises everywhere, a bit of a spinal scare—but he’s gonna make it.

He’s out cold, though.

Lando sits there, holding his son’s hand, mumbling stuff he should’ve said ages ago.

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing. Not to them. Not to me. Especially not to me.”

Wipes his eyes, trying to play it cool.

“You’re already everything I hoped you’d be.”

Sunday Night

Y/N wakes up just as the sun’s ducking out.

Eyes flutter, sharp breath, groan.

Lando’s right there.

“Hey, hey. I got you, I’m here.”

Y/N blinks up, groggy. “Did I crash?”

Lando nods, smiling through tears. “Oh yeah. Massive one. Gave your old man a few grey hairs.”

“Voss?”

“He’s fine. You will be too. Just not today.”

Y/N glances at his cast, then his chest, and his face kind of crumples.

“I thought I was better than that. I thought I could—”

“Stop.” Lando’s suddenly all business. “You don’t get to do that. Not when you’re the one in the hospital bed.”

Silence.

Finally: “I was scared.”

Lando squeezes his hand. “Me too. But you’re here. That’s what counts.”

Three Weeks Later – Home

Recovery sucks.

Y/N’s hating every minute. The quiet, the ache, the way every tiny thing feels like screwing up.

But Lando’s there. Every physio, every stretch, every crap night when the pain comes roaring back.

He never says it, but Y/N knows:

I’d take the crash for you if I could.

But this time, all he can do is stick around and help him through it.

One Month Later – Back at the Track

No racing yet. Just walking the paddock, getting his bearings.

People look. Whisper.

Voss walks by, eyes flickering, maybe a little sorry.

Y/N stares him down. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lando, hiding behind his shades, grins.

“You scared the hell outta me, you know.”

Y/N bumps him with his shoulder. “You already said that.”

“Still true.”

They stand there together in the shadow of the Red Bull Ring—the same place that broke him, and the same place he’s back again.

Not a ghost.

A survivor.

208 notes · View notes

cruel-seduction · 4 months ago

Text

Please stay?

Summary - Y/N never expected to fall for Tom Riddle—let alone be dragged into his cold, calculating world. Their relationship is anything but conventional, full of manipulation, games, and secrets. But when Y/N begins to pull away, refusing to let herself become just another piece in Tom's twisted plan, the truth about their connection forces both of them to confront feelings neither of them ever expected. Can Tom learn to love in his own way, or will his obsession with control destroy everything?

Glimpse - His knees hit the ground, his gaze locked onto yours, something unspoken hanging between you both. His hands twitch at his sides, his breath slow but measured. And then—in his own way—he gives you what you asked for.

"I will never be the person you deserve," he murmurs, voice rough, edged with something unreadable. "But I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. I will try my best"

It’s not perfect. It’s not a romantic declaration. But it’s Tom. And for the first time, he is trying.

a/n - Hello, my certified cutie red flags!!! In the starting the reader will look like a pathetic person with no self respect but trust me it gets much better. AFTER ALL you know your worth. And I can’t write about a girl with no self respect. I am so sorry 😔😔😔. Divider Credit goes to @bernardsbendystraws.

The sky is heavy tonight. The kind of oppressive, ink-black stretch of nothingness that seems to press against the castle like a living thing. Even the stars refuse to shine, swallowed whole by the thick storm clouds slithering across the heavens. A biting chill cuts through the air, sharp and merciless, the lingering dampness from the afternoon rain clinging to the stone walls of Hogwarts like an unshakable ghost.

You pull your cloak tighter around you, fingers numb from the cold, but it’s not the weather that unsettles you. It’s him.

Tom Riddle walks beside you, his steps eerily soundless against the damp grass. His dark robes move like liquid shadow, effortlessly blending into the night, making it seem as if he’s not walking at all but simply materializing forward with each step. You used to take comfort in the way he carried himself—like a king, untouchable and certain of everything. But lately, certainty feels like something slipping between your fingers, something you can no longer grasp.

You steal a glance at him, watching the way the dim torchlight from the castle catches on his sharp features. There is something unnervingly perfect about him—his pale skin unmarked by time, his high cheekbones carved by something otherworldly, his expression unreadable as ever.

You wonder if he’s even real.

Because lately, it feels as though you are losing him.

He’s always been distant in a way no one else could be, keeping the world at arm’s length with cold, calculated detachment. But with you, it has been different. Not soft—Tom Riddle is not a man who indulges in softness—but something just as fragile. Something that could almost be mistaken for tenderness if you weren’t careful.

It was in the way he let you closer than anyone else, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long when you spoke, the way his hand would ghost over your wrist as if grounding himself. It was in the way he would listen, truly listen, in a way he never did for anyone else.

But now? Now, his patience frays faster. His touch lingers less. Now, when you reach for him, you are met with nothing but air.

You don’t confront him. Not at first. Instead, you try harder.

You remind him of the quiet moments. You stay up late to help him study, even when he doesn’t ask. You sit beside him in the library, carefully passing him books before he even has to request them, anticipating his needs before he speaks.

You let your fingers brush against his when handing over a quill, searching for the ghost of something that once was.

But it is never returned. His touches are colder now, calculated in a way that makes you feel like a pawn rather than something cherished. There are no more absent-minded gestures, no more moments where his hand finds the small of your back without thinking.

And still, you do not speak of it. Instead, you watch.

You start noticing things.

The way his jaw tightens when you linger too close. The way his fingers curl ever so slightly when your voice is too gentle. The way his dark eyes, once alight with intrigue when they settled on you, now hold nothing but unreadable emptiness.

It is suffocating. The slow unraveling of something you never had words for, slipping from your grasp with every passing day. Tonight is no different.

You sit beside him in the dim candlelit corridors, your books spread out between you both, but it is silent. Too silent. Tom Riddle is many things—brilliant, ruthless, endlessly composed—but he is not quiet instead he is sarcastic.

But now, he reads in absolute stillness, the flickering candlelight carving harsh shadows across his face. You watch him, fingers curled tightly in your lap, your throat tightening with every second that stretches between you.

Say something. But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Afraid that if you speak, the truth will slip past his lips— That you are not enough. That you were never enough.

So, instead, you say, “You’re tired.” It’s an offering, a small piece of normalcy, an attempt to breach the invisible wall between you. His dark lashes lift as he glances at you, his expression unreadable. Then, after a pause— “I have work to do.”

His voice is smooth, effortless, but there’s something clipped beneath it. Something that makes your chest tighten. You swallow. “You should rest.” A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone before you can name it. He exhales slowly through his nose, setting his book aside with deliberate care.

“I don’t need rest, Y/N,” he says, and for the first time in days, you hear something sharp beneath his words. Frustration. At you.

You should leave it alone. You should nod, change the subject, let him be. But you don’t. Because you can’t take it anymore. You tilt your head, voice quiet but firm. “Then what do you need?”

A second of silence. Then— His gaze darkens, his entire body tensing, as if you’ve just asked something he’s unwilling to answer. But he doesn’t have to. Because you already know. You can see it in the way his fingers tighten on the armrest, in the way his throat works around words he doesn’t say.

He is slipping from you, and neither of you knows how to stop it. And for the first time, the weight of it crushes you whole. And you left.

Hogwarts always hums with whispers.

They slither through the corridors like living things, curling around corners, tucking themselves into the spaces between students. You’ve never paid them much attention.Until now. You’re not looking for it, not eavesdropping, not chasing ghosts through the castle. But sometimes, the truth finds you whether you want it to or not.

The voices are hushed, just around the bend in the empty corridor. You wouldn’t have stopped if not for one single, cutting syllable— "Riddle."

Your stomach tightens instinctively. Not because of fear, but because it’s been weeks of this—of something shifting between you, of watching him slip through your fingers like water, of knowing and not knowing all at once. So you listen. "...come on, you really think he gives a damn about her?" A laugh—low, smug. "Riddle doesn’t care about anyone. She’s just another pawn in his little empire, like the rest of us."

The words should bounce right off you. They should feel absurd. A reach. A lie. But the response— Tom’s response— Never comes.

No denial. No sharp, clipped correction. Not even an ounce of amusement. Just silence.

And somehow, that silence is a knife through the ribs. You don’t even realize you’re backing away until your heel catches the stone step behind you. The sound barely registers. The hum of students in the distance is nothing but static. All you can hear is the echo of that damning silence ringing in your skull.

He let them believe it. He let them reduce you to something disposable, something useful, something beneath him. And he said nothing.

It’s not fire that burns through your veins. Not a dramatic, gasping devastation. It’s cold. Cold like the winter frost clinging to the stone walls. Cold like his fingers when they stopped lingering against yours. Cold like the way he looks at you now—like he’s forgotten how to be anything else.

You find him that night.

Not because you need him to deny it. Not because you need reassurance or soft-spoken words to piece you back together. But because you refuse to let him walk away from this without owning it.

The Room of Requirement is dimly lit when you step inside, your breath steady, your fury simmering just beneath the surface. He stands near the towering shelves, his back to you, his long fingers curled around the edge of an open book.

He doesn’t turn around. He felt you the moment you stepped inside. You know he did. The air thickens. Silence stretches between you, sharp and suffocating. You let it fester for exactly three seconds before you speak.

"Tell me I was just a game to you." His fingers still on the parchment. "Tell me," you continue, voice low, controlled, "so I can walk away."

Nothing.

Not a single breath of a response.

Your jaw tightens, nails biting into your palms. "No clever words? No manipulation? Just silence?" You let out a sharp laugh, one that barely contains the bitterness bleeding into your chest. "How strategic of you, Riddle." His posture remains perfect, unaffected, as if your words barely graze him. But you know him better than that. You know what to look for.

The faintest twitch of his jaw. The way his fingers tighten just so on the book’s spine. He swallows. Then, slowly, he closes the book, placing it back onto the shelf with calculated precision.

You cross your arms, raising an unimpressed brow. "Say something, Tom. Anything. Unless you’d rather me assume the worst."

He finally turns.

His dark eyes meet yours—still unreadable, still calm, but beneath it, something lurks. Something careful. Controlled. He steps forward. You don’t move. The dim light of the torches casts shadows across his face, making the sharp angles of his features even more devastatingly severe. He looks like something sculpted from darkness itself—something untouchable.

But you’ve touched him. You’ve known him.

Or at least, you thought you did.

His gaze drops to your lips for half a second. Then, back to your eyes. He studies you like a puzzle, as if trying to find the exact shape of your anger. Then, quietly— "You seem upset."

You laugh. The sheer audacity of it knocks the air from your lungs. "Brilliant observation, Riddle," you sneer. "Ten points to you." His expression doesn’t shift. He waits.

You shake your head, stepping closer, refusing to be the first one to look away. "So? Is it true? Have I been nothing but a convenient distraction for you?" Another unbearable beat of silence.

You expect an argument. A deflection. A game of words where he twists things back on you, makes you doubt what you heard. Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s good at.

But instead— He gives you nothing. No lies. No truths. Just silence. The emptiness of it hollows out your chest more than any cruel confession ever could.

And suddenly, you understand.

Tom Riddle is a man who will never be honest about what he cannot control. He is a man who will never let himself be seen—not fully, not in the way you thought he had let you see him.

And the worst part?

You don’t know if he’s staying silent because he doesn’t care. Or because he does.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you tilt your chin up, exhaling slowly through your nose. "Right," you murmur. "Got it."

You turn, walking toward the door, forcing every step to remain steady, to not betray the way your ribs feel like they’re caving in on themselves. Behind you, Tom remains motionless. Watching. Silent. He doesn’t call after you. He doesn’t stop you. But he also doesn’t tell you to leave.

And that, somehow, makes it worse.

The halls of Hogwarts had never seemed so cold.

You’ve always known how to handle Tom Riddle. How to wear your strength like armor, how to make sure your words cut sharper than a blade. But now… now it’s different. There’s something behind his silence—something that gnaws at you more than any insult could. So you change.

You work harder. Push yourself to exhaustion in every class. You’ve always been brilliant, but now you push it further, always one step ahead, one move too sharp. You stop seeking his approval. You stop trying to meet his gaze.

You mirror him.

Cold. Detached. Untouchable.

If he can be like that, then why can’t you?

You don’t need him. You tell yourself that, every time the ache in your chest grows too heavy to ignore. You can’t allow yourself to need someone like him—someone who would so easily abandon you in the name of his control. You don’t need his warmth, his approval, his twisted little games.

Instead, you dive deeper into becoming something else—something better than him. You perfect the art of indifference, make it so tight you can’t feel a thing. The way you look at people changes, the way you speak shifts. You’ve learned to show no weakness.

Tom notices.

He watches from the shadows, silent and calculating, as you slip from his grasp. You used to be so sharp, so fiery,funny, sarcastic, cheerful, a force he couldn’t ignore. But now? Now he watches as you become a replica of everything he despises in himself, not that he will ever say it out loud. Hardened. Detached. Unreachable.

It pisses him off more than he wants to admit. He doesn’t want you like this. He never wanted you like this. He can’t stand it. The way you hold yourself back. The way you don’t show anu ounce of feeling

He hates it. And he hates that you think you have to change, to become something you’re not, just because of him.

He tries to fix it.

Not with words. Not with warmth. Not with care. No. He tries to pull you back in the only way he knows how—through control. He corners you after classes. Put his hand on the door before you can leave. Block your path in the hallway. His presence is suffocating, but you don’t flinch.

You don’t even look at him. His eyes narrow, his lips tightening into a thin line. He can see the walls you’ve built. He can feel how cold you’ve become. He hates it more than he hates anything else.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice laced with a mix of frustration and something darker. But you don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just walk past, ignoring him like he doesn’t even exist.

And it drives him crazy.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. He’s Tom Riddle—he’s always been able to control everything, everyone. But you? You’re slipping. Slipping through his fingers, and he can’t get a hold on you anymore.

It infuriates him. The fact that you don’t need him. The fact that you’ve become this stranger he no longer understands.

But you? You don’t even care.

In the end, he’s left standing there—staring at your retreating form, realizing he’s losing you in the only way that matters to him: control.

And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle feels something that isn’t power. Something sharp, unfamiliar. Something he’s never had to acknowledge.

Love? Care? Fear?

The days stretch on in silence between you and Tom. You don’t speak to him. Not a word, not a glance. You’ve locked yourself away in your routine, pushing forward like nothing has changed, though everything inside you feels fractured.

Tom doesn’t seek you out immediately. But it's not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he doesn’t understand it—what this is, what you are, how you’ve slipped so easily through his grasp.

People don't walk away from him. They never have.

He’s Tom Riddle—his name alone commands respect. Authority. Power. People cling to him. They crave his approval like a drug. His cold, calculating nature and the control he exudes make it impossible for anyone to slip away. But you? You’ve walked away, and that doesn’t sit right with him.

It unsettles him in a way he cannot even begin to articulate. He’s used to being the one with the upper hand, used to manipulating the people around him until they bend to his will. But this—this—is different.

And for once, he’s left standing there, unable to do a damn thing about it.

Tom watches you from afar.

Every moment you ignore him, every second you smile at someone else, every time you don’t acknowledge his presence—it stings. He watches you from across the courtyard, from the hallways, from the edge of the shadows.

It drives him mad. The way you’re slipping from him. The way you don’t need him.

And worst of all?

He can’t control it.

It’s late one night, the library unusually quiet, and there you are, sitting alone, exhausted. The stress of the past few days hangs like a weight on your shoulders. Your hands grip the edges of the book in front of you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And then, like some predatory shadow, he’s there. Tom Riddle.

You don’t even look up. You already know he’s standing there, that familiar presence looming over you.

“We need to talk,” his voice breaks the silence, cool and commanding.

You don’t bother to look at him. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” you reply flatly, not willing to spare him a glance.

Tom doesn’t take rejection well. He never has.

He doesn’t wait for your permission. In a single fluid motion, he slams your book shut, his hand still resting on it as his dark eyes bore into you. His voice is low, dangerous, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

“That’s not an option,” he says, a quiet rage simmering beneath the surface.

Your patience snaps. You look up at him now, your eyes blazing with fire. “I am not one of your followers, Riddle. You don’t get to control me,” you spit the words out, each one a jab.

Tom’s jaw clenches. His expression tightens with something you can’t quite place, but it’s raw—almost desperate. “That is not what I’m trying to do,” he says, voice tight, controlled, but something beneath it betrays him.

“Then what are you trying to do?” You stand, the fire in your voice only intensifying. “Because I don’t know what I was to you, Tom. A game? A challenge? Something to entertain you fucking dick—”

“Stop.” His voice cracks like a whip, and it cuts through the tension, sharp and unforgiving. He takes a step closer, a flash of something unfamiliar in his eyes, but he doesn’t reach out to you. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t move to claim anything.

“I never lied to you,” he says, and the words seem so damn final. “I never played you.”

“But you let them think you did,” you counter, your voice small but vicious in its accusation.

Silence falls. The kind of silence that feels like it could shatter everything in the room. He doesn’t deny it. Not this time.

He’s done it. He’s let the whispers—let the rumors—fester in the air, letting them become truth in the eyes of everyone else. The things they said about him. About you. About how he doesn’t care.

And this is where Tom falters.

For the first time in his life, he’s standing there, feeling something—but it isn’t control. It isn’t power. It’s raw. It’s human. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

You stand, ready to leave, but before you can take a single step, his hand catches your wrist.

It’s not a harsh grip. Not a demand. Just a touch—one that shouldn’t feel as damning as it does.

"Don’t go."

It’s not an order. It’s not manipulation.

It’s a request.

A quiet, almost broken thing.

And that stops you cold.

Because Tom Riddle does not beg.

Your breath is uneven as you turn back to him, searching his face, looking for some flicker of deception, some indication that this is just another game, another tactic to keep you under his thumb. But what you find isn’t calculation. It’s not cold control.

It’s something raw. Something real.

"Give me one good reason," you whisper, your voice dangerously close to cracking.

For a moment, he just stares at you, something shifting in his dark eyes—something unreadable, something vulnerable. And then he says the words that shake you to your core. "Because I don’t know how to be without you."

It’s not flowery. It’s not poetic. It’s just true.

Tom Riddle does not understand love the way normal people do. He doesn’t offer promises of forever, doesn’t whisper pretty words into the air like they mean nothing. But he understands you. He understands this.

And for him, admitting that he needs someone? That’s bigger than any declaration of love could ever be. Your chest feels tight, emotions threatening to drown you, but you force yourself to stay steady. He has cracked something inside himself, something he has never dared to expose before.

But it’s not enough.

"Then be better," you tell him, voice firm but not unkind.

His fingers tighten around your wrist, his breath a little uneven, but he nods. He doesn’t promise—because promises mean nothing without action. You slide your fingers between his, lacing your hand with his. "Come with me."

The Room of Requirement shifts and bends to your needs, pulling from the deepest corners of your desires, your emotions. When the door materializes, you push it open and step inside, pulling him in with you.

The room is bare. Empty. Except for a single tulip in the center of the space.

The air is thick with unspoken words. Tom watches you carefully, as if trying to decipher some grand meaning behind your every move. You step forward, plucking the tulip from where it rests, before turning back to him. You hold it out to him, the petals soft against your fingertips. "Get on your knees."

His dark eyes flash. Tom Riddle does not kneel. But then again—Tom Riddle has never cared about anyone enough to chase them, either. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You don’t move. You don’t waver.

His jaw tightens, tension coiling through his frame. But then—after what feels like a lifetime—he does it. He lowers himself. Slowly. Controlled.

His knees hit the ground, his gaze locked onto yours, something unspoken hanging between you both. His hands twitch at his sides, his breath slow but measured. And then—in his own way—he gives you what you asked for.

"I will never be the person you deserve," he murmurs, voice rough, edged with something unreadable. "But I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. I will try my best"

It’s not perfect. It’s not a romantic declaration.

But it’s Tom.

And for the first time, he is trying.

You kneel in front of him, pressing the tulip into his palm. His fingers close around it carefully, as if he’s never held something delicate before.

"This is your last chance, Riddle," you whisper, voice laced with finality. "Don’t waste it."And in that moment, as he holds onto the single flower like it might shatter in his grasp—he knows he won’t.

#tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle x y/n #fanfic #tom riddle #tom riddle fic #tom riddle x you #tom riddle smut #hp smut #smutty smut smut #smutty fanfiction #tom riddle x reader smut #slytherin boys

275 notes · View notes

lovemomhatepolice · 3 months ago

Text

comforter - oscar piastri

navigation taglist requests

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

warnings: Australian GP 2025! English is my second language!

type: fluff/angst

word count: 1.7k

belonging: australia gp 2025

summary: when your home race doesn't go your way, only the person who is ‘home’ remains

more content: formula 1 masterlist, oscar piastri masterlist, as a boyfriend - lando norris, as a boyfriend - charles leclerc, as a boyfriend - max verstappen

The weekend in Australia got off to a great start. Each driver stepped back into their role, starting a whole new story. The whole paddock was flooded with new drivers too - after all, you welcomed six of them this year. And so it all began in beautiful and sunny Melbourne.

You didn't have a long way to go this time, as you had been staying with Oscar for a while during their break. Lazy mornings, beach walks, and quiet dinners with his family had become part of your routine. But now, the real world was back, and Oscar was once again the focused, determined driver you knew so well.

Saturday was a smooth start. Oscar looked comfortable in the car, finishing the qualifying strong only after Lando. McLaren had brought some upgrades, and the early signs were promising. You watched from the garage with his family, headphones on, listening to his radio messages and feeling the adrenaline that always came with race weekends.

"You nervous?" One of the engineers asked you with a smirk.

"Not for him. He’s got this," you replied confidently, even though a tiny part of you always felt the pressure of his home race.

As the sun dipped below the Melbourne skyline, you and Oscar finally had a moment to breathe. He was tired but excited, stretching out on the couch back at the apartment. "Tomorrow’s going to be interesting," he mused, scrolling through his phone. "The track felt great today."

‘You did great’ you winked at him as he put the phone down and kissed the tip of his nose, smiling at him “I see first place tomorrow”.

---

But first place the next day did not come. There were problems right from the start - starting with the weather which was not what it should have been - dark clouds came over Melbourne, which was just the start of that foul day. The rain problem soon turned into a problem with Max, who (as befits a world champion) quickly overtook Oscar, dropping him to third place. Admittedly, Oscar recovered his position after a long time, but that was not the end of it.

The 44th lap was the moment that destroyed the entire race.

One moment, Oscar was managing his race, the next, his McLaren twitched on the slick track, and before anyone could react, he was nearly in the barriers.

Yellow flags waved, the commentary team’s voices rose, and the McLaren garage remained frozen in shock. You barely registered the replays on the screen—your eyes were fixed on his name, waiting for any sign of movement.

Then, the radio crackled to life.

"Yeah… I’m okay."

You knew that this was the end, the chance of winning no longer existed, and it actually wiped points of any kind out of Oscar's hands. To you it didn't matter at all when you knew he was safe, even if he managed to win points later, you were well aware of how it would weigh on his psyche.

When he returned to the garage after the race was over and celebrated, he already had his helmet off, but frustration was painted on his face. He exchanged a few words with his engineers and Zak Brown, nodding stiffly before walking away. He tried to shuffle quietly through the space without drawing more attention to himself. Oscar never wanted to be the one considered ‘moody’, preferring to keep his emotions in check.

You hesitated, knowing he needed space, but also knowing that if anyone could reach him at a time like this, it was you. He wasn't always the strong and independent Oscar, you knew that well.

You found him in his driver's room, sitting on the recliner and staring out the window. The rain was running mournfully down the window, creating an even worse mood than it already was.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, even though you knew the answer.

Oscar let out a humourless giggle, shaking his head. "Brilliant, huh?" His voice was bitter. "So much work and it just …. Gone"

You stepped closer, closing the door behind you, and sat down next to him on the recliner as he made room for you. You sat sideways at the level of his stomach and looked at him softly. Oscar was still in his suit, even though it had been over 40 minutes since the race. His hair was drenched in rain and champagne and his face was flushed.

"Everyone saw how much effort you put into it," you muttered, touching his forearm. "The first race doesn't define the whole year."

Exhaling through his nose, he finally looked you in the eye and moved slightly towards you, succumbing to your touch. "One race, but at home."

And that was the real burden of it all. The disappointment of not being able to give his fans, his family and his team the result they all expected. The breakthrough of the ‘spell’ that lay on the Australians at Albert Park. And it didn't work out.

You squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah, it sucks. But your career is just developing, if not today, then next year. Oscar, you're a good enough driver that you'll make it one day. The world doesn't end today because you didn't win this one," you said, looking straight into his eyes, though Oscar himself after a moment began to wander his eyes everywhere but into your eyes. "Besides, not many people would come back so bravely and still win the points."

A silence ensued between the two of you, broken only by the sound of rain outside the window and Oscar sighed, before smiling slightly at you.

"Can we go home?" the boy asked, touching your hand, to which you merely nodded.

---

The drive home was quiet, the hum of the rain against the car filling the silence between you. Oscar wasn’t sulking—he wasn’t the type—but you could tell he was still replaying the race in his head. You didn’t push him to talk. Instead, you rested your hand on his thigh, a silent reassurance that you were there.

By the time you reached his house, the tension had begun to fade. His childhood home was warm and comforting - exactly what he needed after a day like this. Nicole was already in the kitchen, moving with ease, preparing something for the both of you. She didn't ask about the race in the car and she didn't now either: she knew her son very well and she knew that was how she should act.

"Make yourself comfortable," she called over her shoulder. "I'll bring you something in a minute."

Oscar merely nodded, bestowing a small smile on her, then led you upstairs to his room. You loved spending time up there, his house all permeated with family warmth and the presence of so many people.

It wasn't long before Oscar embraced after the race with you, changing into more homely clothes and you both landed on his bed together, covered in a soft blanket while a movie was playing in the background. The first better one, as long as something was drowning out the silence.

Oscar rested his head against your chest, laying between your breasts, his weight pressing you into the mattress while he absentmindedly drew patterns on your skin. His eyes flicked towards the screen, but you knew he wasn't really watching it.

"Feeling better?" you muttered, combing your fingers through his hair. It was so soft and smelled of fresh papaya.

He hummed, shifting slightly so he could look at you. "Yes. It helps." He smiled half-heartedly at you. "You help."

You smiled, kissing his forehead. "I told you it's not the end of the world."

"It feels like it" he muttered, though his voice lacked the frustration of before. He sighed, resting his chin against your collarbone. "But I think I'll survive."

Before you had time to reply, a quiet knock on the door sounded and Nicole peeked inside with a warm smile.

"I brought you some tea and a snack," she said, placing the tray on his bedside table. "I thought you could both use something warm after today."

"Thanks, Mum," Oscar said, his voice softer now, more like his own.

She patted him affectionately on the head, then turned back to you, stroking your shoulder. "And thank you for looking after him. You are very important to all of us."

You smiled, squeezing her hand. "Thank you, I will always take care of him."

Nicole left you both alone, and Oscar finally shifted, sitting down enough to grab a mug of tea. He took a sip and then handed it to you, watching you do the same.

"Okay," he said after a moment. "Maybe today wasn't a total disaster."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'm glad you finally figured it out."

Oscar waited another moment, putting the cup down on his bedside table, and snuggled into you again, wrapping the blanket around you tightly.

You reached for the snack Nicole had left—a plate of biscuits and some fruit—picking up a piece and holding it to his lips. Oscar raised an eyebrow at you but took a bite anyway, chewing lazily.

"Are you feeding me now?" he mumbled, amused.

You grinned, popping a piece into your own mouth. "Just making sure you don’t waste away from post-race sadness."

"You know," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, "I don’t think I’d be handling today this well if you weren’t here."

Your heart softened at his honesty. You lifted a hand, brushing your fingers against his cheek. "That’s what I’m here for."

Oscar hummed, eyes flickering down to your lips before back to your eyes. "Yeah, but I should probably find a way to thank you properly."

Before you could tease him, he closed the gap between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—just slow, sweet, and filled with all the words he didn’t know how to say.

And as the rain continued to fall outside, you knew that no matter how bad a race weekend could be, moments like this - warm, quiet and full of love - were what really mattered.

A/N: please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

a very very short chapter, but I needed to write something about Oscar, and especially after that fateful Australia

206 notes · View notes

desigal-26 · 2 months ago

Text

My first F1 writing. Please be gentle in criticising. Requests are open if anyone wishes to request something.

The Enigma

Max Verstappen x Fem!Driver!Reader

She was different—an enigma. He was the moth drawn to her.

She took the world by storm when she came and he couldn’t stay away from her.

Warnings: Misogyny towards the reader, mention of hate comments and haters, it’s my first ever F1 related writing so please I am sorry for any mistake in advance, Max lowkey simping(?), Reader assumes the position of Yuki in this but I changed the results of the Chinese GP a bit…so don’t hate me (pretty please 🥹)

Word Count: 2.3k

Formula One—a sport rooted in unpredictably and high-stake risks that have ended in many accidents, fatal and otherwise, over the course of its seventy five years. Things changed. Cars changed. Rules and points system changed. Security measures changed to accommodate the safety of the driver above all perimeters. But what didn’t change was the lack of its reach to the marginalised sections of the population.

Women. Third world countries—or even the developing countries. People without much source or wealth but talent. People of colour.

It was disheartening, and while everyone might have given it a thought once or twice, no one did anything. And why would they? Because Formula One is a sport that might change on track but the core values of it ever really changed—and included the exclusion of certain sectors of life.

It was a news—a world shocking one—when Racing Bulls proudly announced that a female driver—a F2 prodigy and Red Bulls Junior Driver Programme member—will be joining the team in the second seat of the sister team, replacing Liam Lawson who was promoted to the main team to drive alongside Max Verstappen—the Four Times Winning Dutch Lion.

The media called it a PR stunt, a chance to make the headlines and divert attention from the deteriorating situation of the RB20, or perhaps a way of saying “we don’t know what we are doing anymore”. The fan reactions were mixed too. Some hailed the move and inclusion of a woman in motorsport after a long time—especially in Formula One—while others called it “uncalled for” and a “waste of time”.

When asked about the situation and how it would affect her race as a whole, the Racing Bulls’ newest driver had only given a diplomatic smile and a simple answer. “I suppose we will see the results on the track.”

The Australian GP wasn’t a good start for her, ending up in a bad position despite a solid qualifying and ultimately being left heartbroken and out of points because of a strategy that was never going to work out. But one thing was certain after the race—whosoever started and ended the race deserved their respective seats, and she was one of them—even if the haters and the misogynists hiding behind the curtains of ‘traditionalists’ mocked her for not having a decent finish.

But what Christian Horner and Helmut Marko and the whole world saw in the grid positions couldn’t be ignored. While Liam Lawson—the replacement of Sergio Perez—had failed to even bring the car to the checkered flag, their rookie—“replacement’s replacement” as the media likes to mock her—had done so in torrential rain in a car that was less competitive and feisty than the RB21, even if she was still out of the points at P12.

The media chalked it up as a fluke—a one time occurrence that would never happen again, until it did happen again in China. A good qualifying—as good as Racing Bulls can hope for—and a good start of the race had left her in a good position, until an ill-timed pit stop led to her being stuck in traffic, behind the very man whose car she was sitting in.

Liam was struggling, that much was clear to her, and with a radioed confirmation of her outpacing the Red Bull in front of her, she made her move, refusing to bow down to the driver in the senior team. Because why should she? Just because he had a better car and a senior team seat? That didn’t stop her before and it wouldn’t stop her then.

She had scored her first point in Formula One that day—making history in doing so. Becoming the first woman after Lella Lombardi in 1975 to score point, she had proven her worth for the seat she was given, and leading to the ultimate speculations of what if’s when her teammate had ended another race without points at P14 and Liam had followed suit at P16.

Everyone wondered if Christian and Team Red Bull is looking for a switch of drivers before the triple-header started. Speculations ran wild, fans remained restless and rooting for their own favourites while the haters continued to spread word of malice.

On the other hand, in Milton Keynes, the entire team of Red Bull was left in a deep dilemma of choosing between their second driver who refused to perform as well as they expected him to and a rookie that was outqualifying him in a car made to battle the mid-field cars, not a Red Bull.

“We should give her a try,” Hannah Schmitz, the Principal Strategy Engineer of the team, stated with a firm tone, sliding both Christian and Helmut a small bunch of stapled paper holding the raw data of pace on track and little things that make biggest of differences on track. A straightforward and brutal comparison between Liam Lawson and the newest star of the two teams.

The British Team Principal looked at Pierre Waché—their technical director and the man responsible to build the new car as per the new regulations of 2026 for the next year—asking for his take on the matter at hand.

The said man only shrugs, carefully reading through the data kept in the file in front of him. Everyone could see the gears of his mind shifting and churning, processing the data and making the calculations only he could understand.

After a while, Pierre looked up and nodded, quietly stating, “she might find trouble with the car for a lap or two, but she seems to be adaptable.”

Just to be sure, her past championships in F4, F3 and F2 were pulled up and carefully dissected through. Quick decision-making, precise timings, late breaking but at the right times, calm under pressurising conditions, quick adaptability to both the car and the weather and good instincts. Everything they want in their second driver—someone who could help in Red Bull’s campaign for reclaiming the Constructors after last year and help Max’s own campaign for Driver’s Championship.

Therefore, the decision was made.

The initial call had only informed Max about test driving the rookie driver in one of the old RB cars. Maybe RB19 or RB20—which in Max’s opinion, was hard to driver, especially for a rookie who was stepping into a top team car and expecting less…resistance. They had asked him to drop by the Red Bull Ring in Austria, give a lap or two for them to obtain whatever data they wanted to compare her with, and then leave if he wanted to.

Simple. Or so Max had thought.

He had seen her performance in the Racing Bull, had congratulated her when she scored her first point in the Chinese Grand Prix and had lingered around a bit to talk—to advice her for her future stints, he argued with himself. But he knew himself better.

She was friendly in a way that wasn’t common in the sport, easy to talk to and definitely didn’t hold any prejudices against him. He had expected her to be a bit shy, maybe naïve as well, but she wasn’t neither. Initially a bit quiet, probably intimidated by him, but that had soon away gave way for her true self to blossom out, which had, in turn lead to them speaking for a longer time than Max had intended it to be. But he enjoyed it—no, he craved it once she was whisked away by a media personnel and she had offered him a smile that he swore could melt the Himalayas.

It was stupid, he knew. She would most probably be his teammate soon enough. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her or the way she remained so calm under pressure or the way her hair looked in a certain light. But it is not meant to be.

They are not meant to be.

The parking lot of the Red Bull Ring was mostly empty except for the familiar cars of his team and a slightly worn out one parked in the farthest end of the lot. He didn’t give it much attention, not when GP was already making his way to him, already informing him about what was expected of Max to do for the day. A small help, his race engineer had phrased.

“Is she here?” The Dutch driver didn’t even realise the words had slipped out until he saw GP shrug and nod. “Arrived before I did.” That caught the World Champion’s attention. No one in the senior team arrived earlier than his race engineer, not Hannah, not even Christian who was the team principal and usually earlier than a lot of people.

The inside of the garage was bustling as usual and Max immediately caught sight of Christian talking to her in a corner with an encouraging smile. His steps slowed down and his eyes studied her like she was the one race he hadn’t conquered yet.

Her gaze was sharp, sliding over and studying each curve and ridge of the RB19 that was being polished for Max to drive. One of the most dominant cars to have ever been made in the history of Formula One—awaiting for its rider to drive it again to a speed that had all the other teams trembling in its prime. Her hair was neatly tied, the casual clothes traded for the navy blue fireproof overalls of Red Bull. The race suit was undone on top, hanging off her waist while the fire resistant white undershirt stretched over the entirety of her upper body, accentuating her curves in a way that had many engineers and mechanics double taking—not to forget Max himself. Her helmet, balaclava and gloves were perched upon the counter beside her, waiting to be worn and be used by the rookie that had set the world on fire with her performance.

“Max! We were just talking about you!” The driver smiled as Christian hugged him, gesturing for him to join the conversation that seemingly had consisted of the team principal trying to soothe the Racing Bull driver’s nerves while all she had done was give back hums and small replies while studying the car like an expert.

But now, her attention was on the Four Times World Champion, and did Max almost preen at the thought of capturing her interest when all she had done before was provide non-committal replies because she was pre-occupied with an innate thing.

He flashed her a smile, offering his hand while he greeted her, “it’s good to have you here.” She smiled in response, and the Dutch Lion felt himself being pulled into her gravity, her small but no less callous hand slipping into his considerably larger ones with ease. “It’s good to be in the big leagues garage for once,” her smooth voice held its own unique authority that had the air around them stilling.

The hands were retracted and Max mourned the loss of the touch quietly before he began to ask her about random things. Whether she was feeling nervous or had she had her breakfast, before the conversation turned to their respective seasons so far before ending at the small tips for her for handling the RB19 efficiently.

He was called away to get dressed and slip into the car and do his job, and the thought of her and the outer world just disappeared until all that remained for Max was himself, the humming of the car beneath him and the track in front of him.

It was a quick in and out. Two laps of speed before he was called in and the car was parked in the garage, the Dutch driver emerging out of his chariot with ease of a king stepping into his kingdom—knowing full well that no one can challenge him here, much less beat him.

His blue eyes fell on the woman that stood in the corner, gloves slipping on while her own gaze was on him. He could see the spark of appreciation in them, a good impression—not that he needed one to prove his worth to her. The whole world knew what he could do—what he can do.

“Thanks, Max. You can stay if you want to see her test drive.” Christian patted his shoulder like a proud father, gesturing to the rookie whose balaclava was in place and helmet was going on, concealing her features but not her sharp eyes that seek only one thing: to prove that she was here because of her talent and not her face or sympathy.

Usually, he never stays. He doesn’t need to. Because for Max, these test drives and comparing contrasting is a waste of time. Because no test drive or practice can prepare someone for the real race—when nineteen cars fight against you in unpredictable situations with the weight of expectation weighing your shoulders down and insecurity clawing at your mind.

But something in him relented against the idea of leaving.

Perhaps, he only wanted to see the potential of the enigma that had walked into the garage with a quiet strength only a few possessed, or perhaps, he knew that while he might give himself several dozen excuses for every word he had spoken to her—she was different, and he wanted to know her. Solve the puzzle that she was.

“I will stay.”

If Christian was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, the team principal only handed him a headphone and the duo waited in silence as the RB19 made its way to the track again—this time with a driver that might become their next big hope for competing against the McLaren and their killer driver line up.

“Starting Lap One.”

And so, the Red Bull garage held breath.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #driver!reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #max verstappen fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 2025

214 notes · View notes

therealmaquaroonie · 2 years ago

Note

hey uhh. would you. would you be able to do a black lizard kin flag. totally not obsessed with ur flags btw

BLACK LIZARD KIN AND GENDER FLAGS FOR sleepinginmute!!!!!

this marks the first lizard flag that i've made!!!! i may have gone a little bit ham with otherkin ones ehehehe

black lizards are one of my favorite lizards!!!!! i love their whiskers...

as always, these flags are free to use and edit though credit is fine!!

#maq content #maq./asks #rain world flag requests #rain world #rain world downpour #rw downpour #rw black lizard #rain world black lizard #rw black lizard kin #rw black lizard gender

24 notes · View notes

magic-shop-stories · 2 months ago

Note

Hello! I love your writing so much, so I thought I'd drop an ask. Maybe OT7 with a bisexual/pansexual partner. I haven't seen any headcanons for this yet, and thought you'd be the perfect person to ask. Have a great day! ❤️

P.S. : I will be eating all of the metaphorical cookies. 🍪🍪🍪

💌 Reply:

hey, first off, so sorry this took ages... i wanted to do your beautiful idea justice! 🥺 while i tried to keep things gender-neutral, my brain kept defaulting to female pronouns (sigh, habit), but i tried to sprinkle it in genderfluid themes & nonbinary love too! 🌈 really hope this still resonates with what you were looking for. your request was such a joy to write... thank you for trusting me with it and for requesting 💜💜💜 – c 🌟 P.S. I hand you a whole virtual cookie jar 🍪🍪 you deserve ALL the snacks!

OT7 x BI/PAN PARTNER HEADCANONS

(mainly f!Reader, but also partly genderfluid)

NAMJOON

HOW HE FINDS OUT

happens during one of your late-night walks along the Han River

air thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement

Namjoon is rambling about the symbolism of bridges in postmodern literature

you suddenly mention your college ex-girlfriend offhand

“She used to say bridges are just…delayed goodbyes."

you laugh casually, kicking a pebble into the water

he stops mid-step

you panic — did I overshare?

then his eyes soften behind his glasses

that familiar crease of curiosity forming between his brows

“Wait. She?”

he asks, not with judgment, but the same tone he uses when dissecting a paradox in a poem

you nod, bracing for the awkward follow-up

he tilts his head, lips quirking

“Huh. That explains why your playlists are so elite. Bi panic bangers only, right?”

his laugh echoes over the water

you notice the way he files the detail away

= like a new chapter added to the encyclopedia of you

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Intellectual Ally

doesn’t just accept your identity

he studies it

not in a clinical way, but with the reverence of a man who believes love is the ultimate language

Gift

leaves a dog-eared copy of The Song of Achilles on your pillow

passages about Achilles and Patroclus highlighted in purple

sticky notes protrude like little flags

“This line made me think of us” / “Patroclus is gay, at lest definitely bi. Fight me.”

Advocacy

when a stylist refers to your ex as a “phase,” he adjusts his mic mid-interview

“Attraction isn’t a binary equation. Let’s not simplify what we don’t understand.”

texts you: “You deserve more than tolerance. You deserve awe.”

Quiet Revolutionary

weaves your truth into his art = subtle but unshakable

Lyrical Nods

find a draft for “Dichotomy” in his studio

“Love’s not a Venn diagram / we’re the whole damn page.”

you tease him

“So this is why ARMYs think you’re queer-coded?”

he smirks

“Maybe I am. Maybe we’re all just…coded.”

Symbolic Gestures

replaces his latest signature silver chain with a bracelet of interlocking bi-pride colors

“It’s about wavelength diversity, science is…kinda gay.”

Vulnerable Confidant

one rainy night, he opens up over whiskey

“I had a friend in high school."

murmurs, swirling his glass

“We’d debate Foucault and hold hands under the desk. I didn’t have the words then, but… I get it. The weight of naming yourself.”

he doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to

his knee presses against yours under the table, steady and sure

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Language Matters

corrects his parents/friends/staff gently

“Eomma, they’re not ‘confused’; they’re multilingual in love.”

Space to Explore

you cut your hair androgynously on a whim?

he stares, then breathes

“You look…like a storm. Beautiful and unstoppable.”

Defending Your Joy

at a party, a drunk producer sneers

“So you’re the reason RM’s lyrics got so political?”

he steps in front of you, voice low

“No. They’re the reason my lyrics got human.”

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

for all his confidence, he worries

admits during late nights

“What if I fail you? What if I don’t see the ways the world cuts you?”

remind him that allyship is a practice, not a trophy

he nods, scribbling in his journal

“Love as a verb. Love as a fight. Love as a bridge.”

TURNING POINT

you’re both buzzed on soju and nostalgia

he slides a crumpled poem across the table

“You: A question mark with wings. Me: A comma, begging you to stay.”

you laugh, but he grips your hand

“I don’t need you to make sense, I need you to be free.”

AFTERMATH

His Pride

wears a bi-pride pin hidden under his suit jacket at the UN speech

you spot it on TV

he texts: “For the parts of you the cameras can’t see.”

Your Legacy

years later, a fan asks him about the “bridge” metaphor in his solos

he just smiles

“Ah. That’s not about endings. It’s about…someone who taught me love has infinite lanes.”

JIN

HOW HE FINDS OUT

during a chaotic game night with the members

you’re all crammed into the dorm

bowls of half-eaten popcorn scattered around

Jungkook dares you to rank your “top 5 celebrity crushes"

you list two actors, a K-pop idol, and a non-binary artist, tossing in a femme-presenting CEO for good measure

Jin pauses mid-chip-crunch, eyebrows shooting up

“Yah, our baby’s got range."

he snorts, elbowing Taehyung

later, when the others migrate to the kitchen, he lingers

he is uncharacteristically soft

"...you know it’s cool, right? Liking… everything?”

gestures vaguely at the universe

“More options, more fun. Smart.”

before you can respond, he tosses a couch cushion at your head

“But if you cheat on me with any of those CEOs, I’ll haunt your WiFi!”

his grin is mischievous

his eyes hold a quiet promise: I see you

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Unshakable Ally (With Jokes on Top)

refuses to let your identity be a “thing”

to him, it’s just another facet of you

= like your hatred of cilantro or your obsession with penguin documentaries

Casual Normalization

at group dinner, a staff member asks if you’re “still into girls/guys”

he fake-gasps

“Excuse me, they’re into hot people. Have you seen me?”

flexes dramatically, dissolving the tension

Deflection with Defense

at a fan meet-and-greet someone implies you’re “confused”

Jin leans into the mic

“Funny, I’m confused why you’re not asking for my skincare secrets instead.”

crowd roars

“Some people need a hobby. Mine is loving you.”

Secret Romantic

beneath the theatrics, Jin’s support is fiercely intentional

Family First

preps his parents before you meet them

his mom swats him, but she gifts you a rainbow-stitched sweater

Grand Gestures

for your anniversary, he rents a food truck named “Bi-ngeu Bar” (pun intended)

serves heart-shaped dumplings in bi-flag colors

“Eat up! Love is hungry work.”

Protector in Dad-Joke Armor

Jin’s humor is his shield

and yours

Shutting Down Bullies

a rude comment about your sexuality surfaces online?

he claps back on Weverse:

“Jeon Jungkook’s abs: 10/10. Your opinion: 0/10. Stay mad!”

then texts you: “Don’t read the comments. Read this instead: You’re perfect.”

Safe Space Creator

redesigns his gaming setup with a bi-pride RGB keyboard

“Now when we play, you can slay and slay.”

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Pronoun King (if needed)

corrects a stylist mid-fitting

“They look amazing in lavender, but they’ll look better in my jacket.”

tosses his Gucci blazer over your shoulders

Memory Magic

remembers every ex’s name, birthday, and “why it didn’t work”

“You cried over Jihoon for three days? Weak. I’d make you sob for a month.”

he’s jealous, but he’ll never admit it

Unexpected Wisdom

during a 3 AM snack runs

“Love’s like… kimchi stew. You throw in whatever you’ve got; tofu, pork, chaos and it’s still delicious. No rules.”

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

for all his bravado, Jin worries about “failing” you

after pride parade, he blurts:

“What if I’m not… enough? Like, what if you need someone who gets it more?”

remind him that allyship isn’t about perfection

it’s about showing up

he takes it to heart

next week, he drags you to a queer film festival

“I bought tissues, for you. I don’t cry.”

sobs into your hoodie during the finale

TURNING POINT

fan at a live event asks:

“How do you handle your partner’s past relationships?”

he pauses, then smirks

“Easy. I’m their future.”

crowd swoons

later, he pulls you aside

“Seriously, though; I’m glad you loved before me. It means you chose me knowingly.”

his ears turn pink

AFTERMATH

His Pride

during a Bon Voyage episode, he “accidentally” packs a bi-flag pajama for you

“Oops! Guess you’ll have to wear it… for content.”

he stares a little too long

Your Legacy

years later, he launches a cooking show called “Worldwide Flavor”

celebrating global cuisines cooking LGBTQ+ celebs

“Food, like love, has no borders."

YOONGI

HOW HE FINDS OUT

you’re sprawled on his studio couch

half-asleep

he tinkers with a track

the room smells like burnt coffee and ambition

out of nowhere, you mumble what's been on your mind all day long

“My ex-girlfriend used to hate this song.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up

“Hm. Her loss.”

hos fingers keep dancing across the keyboard

his shoulders tense, just a fraction

= like he’s waiting for you to backtrack

you don’t, he spins his chair toward you

“Girlfriend, huh?”

you freeze

Shit

you hadn’t meant to say it like that

he just raises an eyebrow and reaches for his mug

“Cool. Wanna order pizza? I’m thinking… half meat lovers, half veggie. Balanced diet.”

you just blink

“That’s it? No questions?”

he snorts

“Why? You gonna write a thesis on who you’ve kissed? Pass.”

later, when you’re splitting the last slice he sights

“For the record… I like the song.”

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

“No Drama” Ally

he doesn’t do grand speeches

he does actions

= small, precise, and devastatingly effective

Playlist

USB appears in your bag one day

titled “Studio Vibes” but includes Girl in Red, MUNA, and a lo-fi remix of Sweater Weather

you side-eye him?

he grumbles:

“It’s just music. Don’t make it weird.”

Pronouns, No Bullshit

adds your pronouns to his studio whiteboard next to “BPM 92” and “Fix bridge.” (if you want him to)

you thank him?

he shrugs

“So I don’t misgender you when I’m sleep-deprived. Efficiency.”

Shut-Down King

PD jokes about your “experimental phase” during a meeting

Yoongi cuts in, deadpan

“We’re here to talk about the track, not your PhD in heteronormativity.”

Secret Softie

beneath the sarcasm, he’s a closet romantic

especially for your romances

Fanfiction Flashbacks

one night, drunk on soju, he admits he wrote BL fanfic in high school

“It was… research”

mutters, face red

“For character development.”

you find his old username later and discover 50k words of enemies-to-lovers

Lyric Love Letters

his first draft for “Seesaw” originally had a line about “loving in stereo.”

scraps it but texts you the clip

“Too on-the-nose. But… you get it.”

Protector

guards your peace like it’s his own

Boundary Enforcer

a journalist at an interview asks, “Who’s the man in the relationship?” ?

he leans into the mic

“Do I look like a math problem? Next question.”

Safe Space Curator

lets you hide in his studio during overwhelming events

“No one’ll look for you here. I’m ‘scary.’”

leaves the door cracked

just enough for you to slip in

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Coffee Codes

starts ordering your usual as “The Bi Special” at the café

extra shot, oat milk, rainbow sprinkle

“It’s just marketing, they’re… loyalty points.”

Subtle Flex

wears a black ring on his right middle finger “for aesthetics”

you know it has a rainbow flag on the inside

when you ask, he just smirks

“Maybe I’m spicy. Maybe I just like rings.”

Gift of Rage

buys you a “Fuck Your Binary” hoodie after a rough day

“It was on sale”

he lies - it wasn’t

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

Yoongi’s support isn’t perfect

= he hates that

after a fight about him “underreacting” to your coming out, he stays up editing a track called “Apology in D Minor.”

4 a.m., he admits it

“I’m scared of making it about me. Your life’s not my damn album.”

You find a note in his lyric book:

“Love shouldn’t need a genre. Just a heartbeat.”

TURNING POINT

you’re both trapped in a rainstorm after a concert

he shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over your head

“I looked up ‘bi visibility day.’ It’s in September. We’re… busy then. But maybe… cake?”

you laugh

“Cake?”

he scowls

“Yeah. Layers. Whatever. Don’t...don’t make me say it again.”

AFTERMATH

Quiet Pride

sneaks bi flag colors into his concert mic design (or you remember how the wristbands for the D-Day Tour were rainbow colours in order?)

Legacy of Love

a rookie producer asks him about writing inclusive lyrics

he leans back, eyes closed

“Love’s not a checkbox. It’s a… frequency. Tune in or fuck off.”

J-HOPE

HOW HE FINDS OUT

during a dance practice

you’re both slumped against the mirror

sweat-drenched and breathless

you mention your ex- girlfriend who taught you to salsa

Hobi’s head whips around so fast his snapback flies off

“Wait. She?”

his eyes widen, not with shock but delight

= like he’s just unlocked a new level of you

“That’s why your footwork’s so fire! You’ve been holding out on me!”

pokes your ribs, grinning

his tone gentles

“Seriously, though… thanks for telling me. That’s… cool. You’re cool.”

he slips a rainbow-hair scrunchie onto your wrist

“For your next salsa partner."

no big deal

except his hands tremble slightly

he’d stayed up all night contemplating how to respond

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Hype Man Supreme

doesn’t just accept your identity

celebrates it, loud and proud

Pride Parade Energy

drags you to Seoul Pride

both of you in DIY bi-flag overalls

“We’re serving community today, baby!”

twirls a flag like a baton, cheering louder for queer elders than anyone else

you shyly hold his hand, he lifts it skyward

“Let the world see!”

Public Shoutouts

fan asks about his “ideal type.”

he smirks

“Someone who knows love isn’t a checkbox, shoutout to my pansexual partner! Love is… unlimited!”

you bury your face in a couch cushion

he posts the clip on Twitter with: 🏳️🌈🔥

Educated Ally

he treats allyship like choreography

= precise, practiced, and full of heart

History Lessons

after you mention feeling isolated, he memorizes queer icons’ birthdays

“Did you know Marsha P. Johnson invented joy? Be like Marsha.”

buys you a “Pay It No Mind” T-shirt

wears a matching one

Language Matters

a staff member misgenders your friend?

he interjects

“They use they/them, like the legend they are!”

later asks you to quiz him on pronouns

“Gotta stay sharp, yeah?”

Nurturer

notices the quiet struggles beneath your pride

Safe Space Rituals

after a tough day, he ambushes you with a “Bi-Night Survival Kit= fuzzy socks, Steven Universe DVDs, and a handwritten coupon for “Unlimited Hugs (No Expiry).”

Defending Your Joy

at a club, a drunk stranger comes to you:

“So you’re, like, greedy?”

Hobi steps between you

smile icy

“Nah, they’re selective. And you’re uninvited.”

spins you into a dance,

“You’re magic. Don’t let dust settle on you.”

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Choreography Codes

sneaks bi-pride colors into his next music video

“The blue represents your calm, the pink your passion, and the purple… us. Blended.”

Daily Affirmations

texts you sunrise selfies with captions like “Another day to love all of you! 🌈☀️”

Family Education

teaches his family about bisexuality through K-drama analogies

“It’s like… True Beauty, but the main character dates both leads. And the world doesn’t end!”

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

for all his confidence, he worries he’ll miss a step

“What if I mess up? Say the wrong thing?”

you reassure him that allyship is a dance

= sometimes you stumble, but you keep the rhythm together

his growth shines in tiny moments

cancels a collab with a subtly homophobic artist

shrugging

“Their loss. My integrity’s non-negotiable.”

you mention wanting to try they/them pronouns?

practices for weeks

leaves sticky notes on the fridge

“They’re my favorite human” / “Have they seen my AirPods?”

TURNING POINT

on your anniversary, he gifts you a custom mixtape titled “Unlimited Love (Track 1: You)”

last song is an original ballad:

“You’re not a genre, you’re the whole damn song / And I’ll keep dancing to you, lifelong.”

performs it at a concert

bi-pride lights bathing the stage

ARMYs sob

you sob louder

AFTERMATH

Legacy of Light

fans spot bi-flag colors in his choreography for a rookie group

he tweets: “Some lessons are too good not to share. 🌈”

Your Echo

a young fan comes out to him

he gives them handmade bi-pride bracelet

“Be bold. Be you. And find someone who sees you, like my partner taught me.”

JIMIN

HOW HE FINDS OUT

during a lazy Sunday morning

sunlight filtering through the curtains as you scroll through old photos together

pauses at a picture of you and your ex-girlfriend at a Pride parade

your faces painted in rainbow hues

“Who’s this?”

voice casual but eyes sharpening with curiosity

you hesitate, tracing the screen

“Someone important… from before.”

Jimin’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, feather-light

“You looked happy”

when you nod, he tilts his head, studying your face

“You are happy now, right?”

question isn’t jealous = it’s a quiet plea for honesty

“Happier. But… it’s different.”

he cups your cheek, warmth seeping into your skin

“Different isn’t bad. Tell me how.”

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Emotional Safe Haven

Jimin doesn’t just accept your identity

he cherishes it like a fragile, precious thing

The First Step

after your confession, he arrives at your door with a homemade cake iced in bi-pride colors

“I Googled ‘how to apologize for heteronormativity’”

flour still dusting his sweater

“This was step one.”

Verbal Affirmations

starts every difficult conversation with:

“I love all of you, okay?”

even before arguing about chores

you tease him, he pouts

“What? I need you to know the foundation is solid before we build.”

Protective Instincts

at a party, a drunk acquaintance smirks

“So you’re Jimin’s… experiment?”

before you can react, Jimin steps between you

smile razor-sharp

“Ah, hyung, you’re confused. I’m the lucky one here.”

loops his arm through yours and leads you away

grip trembling with fury

Subtle Advocate

support is a series of small, deliberate acts

each one a brick in the fortress he builds around your heart

Quiet Education

catch him watching YouTube essays on queer theory at 2 a.m.

notebook filled with phrases like “compulsory heterosexuality” and “bi erasure.”

he blushes

“I just… want to understand the battles you don’t talk about.”

Artistic Tributes

choreographs a solo dance to Halsey’s “Strangers”

dedicating it to you at a concert

ARMYs dissect the lyrics about sapphic love

he never explains

“They’ll figure it out."

Nurturer

Jimin’s love language is touch

but he recalibrates it to fit your needs

Reassurance Rituals:

you spiral into self-doubt?

he traces the bi-pride bracelet on your wrist with his pinky

“This color suits you, like… a sunset that refuses to end.”

Safe Spaces

transforms your shared closet into a cozy nook with fairy lights and weighted blankets

“For when the world feels too loud, I’ll be outside, singing until you’re ready.”

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Secret Pride

buys a bi-pride keychain “for your gym bag” but attaches it to his own

fans spot it

he shrugs

“It’s pretty. Just like my partner.”

Memory Keeper

writes down every time you mention a queer artist or film

for your birthday, he gifts you a scrapbook titled: “Your History, My Homework.”

Defiant Romance

takes you to a lesbian-owned café for your anniversary

“Their lattes are art.”

you catch him slipping a “Thank you for existing” note to the owner

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

Jimin worries he’ll fail you

after a nightmare, he shakes you awake

“What if I’m not enough?”

whispers, tears glinting

“What if I can’t… see all the parts of you?”

you pull him close

“You already do.”

he clings to you

TURNING POINT

a family member questions your sexuality

Jimin cancels his schedule and drives you to the beach

doesn’t push you to talk

just holds your hand as the waves crash

“Why aren’t you angry?”

he turns, eyes blazing

“I am. But my anger isn’t what you need.”

presses a seashell into your palm

“You’re like this. Whole, even when broken.”

AFTERMATH

His Legacy

during a solo interview, he’s asked about “unconditional love.”

he smiles

“It’s not about ignoring flaws. It’s loving someone’s… dimensions. Their shadows and light.”

Your Impact

a fan comes out to him at a meet-and-greet

he hugs them tight

“You’re so brave, but you don’t have to be. Just… be you.”

TAEHYUNG

HOW HE FINDS OUT

you’re curled up on the floor of his new art studio

sketching a figure with no defined gender

fluid lines, soft curves, and sharp edges all at once

Taehyung peers over your shoulder, tilting his head like a curious crow

“They’re hot.”

he's plopping down beside you

“Are they… you?”

you freeze

charcoal smudging your palm

“Not… exactly. Just someone I admire.”

he squints, then points to the rainbow-hued shadow beneath the figure’s collarbone

“That’s you!”

he insists

“Your heart’s too big for one shape.”

when you explain your sexuality, his grin widens

“So yo1u’re a masterpiece in 4D. Cool.”

steals your sketchbook and adds a tiny Vante-style crown to the figure

“Now it’s us.”

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Unbothered Artivist

Taehyung doesn’t see your identity as a thing to support

it’s just another brushstroke in the mural of who you are

The Portrait

paints you as a Greek deity with cascading hair that shifts from curls to waves

draped in a robe that melts into bi-pride colors

hangs it in the living room

“It’s called ‘Reality."

Chaotic Advocacy

brings you to a queer poetry slam and heckles for you

“LOUDER FOR THE BABIES IN THE BACK!”

shouts mid-recital

you want to vanish

he buys you ice cream after

“You’re my favorite rebel.”

Subtle Protector

notices microaggressions before you do and dismantles them with chaotic charm

At a Party

photographer leers: “So, which way do you swing?”

Taehyung slings an arm around you, grinning like a wolf

“All ways. Like… a playground swing. Fun, right?”

the man retreats

Taehyung whispers:

“Wanna burn his camera?”

Family Matters

your grandfather refers to your ex as a “roommate”

Taehyung fake-sneezes into the kimchi

“Sorry. Allergies to… outdated ideas.”

later, he teaches him the word “pansexual” using K-drama metaphors

Romantic Historian

archives your love in his own whimsical way

The Mixtape

creates a playlist titled “Love in 432 Hz”

= songs about fluidity, rebellion, and moonlit confessions

“It’s the frequency of the universe."

Time Capsule

buries a box under his childhood tree with mementos: your first movie ticket, a bi-pride ribbon, a note that reads “Future Us: Still weird. Still in love.”

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Pronoun King

accidentally uses your ex’s pronouns wrong once

when corrected, he bows like a Shakespearean actor

“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty.” (but not in a mocking way)

never slips again

Fashion Ally

designs matching sweaters with hidden bi-pride stitching

“It’s a subtle flex."

Safe Space Ritual

when anxiety claws at you, he drapes you in his oversized coat

“Wrap yourself in my love. It’s gender-neutral.”

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

for all his confidence, he worries about missing something

one night, he traces the bi-pride flag on your phone case

“What if I don’t see the battles you fight when I’m not looking?”

you remind him that love is a lens, not a shield

he nods

then sketches a comic strip of you as a knight and him as your loyal (but stylish) squire

TURNING POINT

you find him crying over Portrait of a Lady on Fire

“They’re us, but gayer. And French.”

clutches your hand

“I want the world to see you like this... free.”

next day, he auctions his own painting for a LGBTQ+ youth shelter

“For the babies who don’t have a squad yet."

AFTERMATH

His Legacy

wears a bi-pride ribbon pinned to his Grammys suit

when asked, he says:

“Oh, this? It’s my partner’s heartbeat.”

Your Language

invents a secret handshake that ends with a finger-heart

“Our love is… untranslatable, but ARMY will try.”

JUNGKOOK

HOW HE FINDS OUT

2 a.m. in the practice room

you’re both slumped against the mirror

sharing a bag of honey butter chips

he scrolls past a TikTok of your ex-girlfriend

“Who’s this?”

“Someone I dated before you.”

he chokes, chip crumbs spraying

“Dated? Like… dated dated? Girl dated?”

you nod, bracing for confusion

his eyes widen like a kid who just discovered fireflies

“Wait. So you like… everyone?”

you shrug

“Pretty much.”

he stares at the ceiling, processing, then grins

“Cool. More people to be jealous of.”

HIS SUPPORT STYLE

Eager Student

he approaches your identity like a new video game

= obsessively, joyfully, determined to master it

Research Mode

binge-watches Heartstopper alone

texts you at 3 a.m.

“IS THIS HOW IT WORKS?? AM I BEING A GOOD BOYFRIEND???”

Question Time

during gym cooldowns, he asks:

“So pan means you like souls, not just bodies? That’s… badass.”

you explain genderfluid friends

he nods solemnly

“So they’re like… shape-shifters. Respect.��

Mishaps

tries to say “heteronormativity” and accidentally texts “hetero-noodle-maturity.”

you frame it

Protective Show-Off

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do subtle

if the world won’t celebrate you, he’ll scream it into existence

Public Flexing

during a live stream, a fan comments: “Who’s the woman in JK’s life?”

he smirks

“Who said there’s a woman? My partner’s perfect, not binary.”

cue Twitter/Weverse meltdown

Chaotic Ally

shows up to your friend’s Pride event in a homemade “BI-FRIENDLY” tank top

flexing his biceps

“What? I’m the merch.”

The “Stupid” Gesture

hires a skywriter to scribble “Proud of U 💖💜💙” over HYBE

Yoongi "yells" at him, but doesn't iykyk

he pouts

“It’s art, hyung!”

Secret Softie

beneath the chaos, he’s terrified of failing you

Midnight Fears

wakes you once, voice small

“Do I… make you feel seen? Or am I just another dumb straight guy?”

you kiss his forehead

“You’re my dumb ally guy.”

he clings to you like a koala

Growth Spurt

after misgendering your friend, he practices their pronouns in the mirror for hours

“They brought snacks. They are cool. They… deserve better than me.”

spoiler: he nails it

LITTLE THINGS HE DOES

Playlist Warfare

makes you a mixtape titled “Bisexual Anthems (JK Approved)”

featuring Megan Thee Stallion, Lil Nas X, and a random Mozart track “for diversity”

Fashion Statement

dyes a streak of his hair bi-flag colors “for fun”

keeps “forgetting” to wash it out

“Oops. Guess I’m fabulous now.”

Petty Revenge

a rude YouTuber mocks your identity?

Jungkook “accidentally” leaks a clip of himself singing “Born This Way” in the shower

views: 10 million in an hour

HIS FEARS & GROWTH

struggles with feeling “enough”

worries your attraction to all genders means he’s just another option

Insecurity

after you mention a cute barista, he spends three hours perfecting his latte art

presents you with a wobbly heart

“Is this… good enough?”

Breakthrough

you catch him defending a queer ARMY on Weverse

“Love isn’t a limited edition. Back off.”

when you praise him, he blushes

“Just… stealing your lines.”

TURNING POINT

you’re both tipsy at a karaoke bar when he grabs the mic

“This one’s for my partner, the hottest, most pan human alive!”

he belts out “I Kissed a Girl” in agressive

you’re mortified

he’s beaming

“I wanted everyone to know you’re mine. But also… yours. Is that dumb?”

AFTERMATH

Unshakable Pride

gets a tiny bi-pride flag tattooed behind his ear

“It’s for me, to remember how… big love can be.”

Legacy

at the Grammys, he thanks you in his speech

“To my partner, you taught me that hearts don’t have borders. Unless it’s the border between me and anyone who hurts you. Then I’ll fight.”

66 notes · View notes

yeyinde · 2 years ago

Text

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6knotes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire #gazfics

989 notes · View notes

identity-coining · 1 year ago

Text

No Significant Harassment Kintype (Iterator Kin)

A flag for alterhumans whose kintype is a No Significant Harassment Iterator from Rainworld.

15 notes · View notes

ferrstappen · 2 years ago

Text

world champion/twins dad l Max Verstappen x reader

love note: HELLO LOVIESSSS! How are you all? it's been such a long time and for that I am so deeply sorry. To be honest it's not that I don't want to write because I've been dying to but for some reason inspiration just doesn't seem to come, but this request made me weak and awakened my mind a bit so I hope you enjoy it <3

i do feel up for little blurbs or scenarios if you want to come to my ask box and we can daydream endlessly <3

summary: the tragic chains of events before Luca Verstappen started feeling terrible. (dad!Max)

Mila & Luca Verstappen, age 6. Zandvoort.

Max warned Luca about the incoming rain the moment he noticed him shrugging off the official Red Bull rain jacket, favoring the tailored track jacket from the Dutch GP collection with his last name and dad’s number on the back, but of course his carbon copy complained, retaliating with things he learned in school, usually when it rains there’s clouds and it’s cold, and right now Luca Verstappen was seeing with his own two blue eyes the sun shining outside.

He repeated the same explanation when you told him he needed to wear his jacket.

“Your dad lived here, he knows the weather. Listen to him and out on the jacket,” you dictated before fixing Mila’s hair under her special Dutch GP cap.

Max shrugged before facing Luca, “You listened to mama, jacket it is! And I can’t be late so hurry up,” Luca huffed while grabbing and putting on the Red Bull jacket.

It seemed as if everyone was waiting for Max’s arrival to the track because the flashes were blinding, the tens listening to their papa when he told them to cover their faces. Knowing you wouldn’t be seeing much of Max today and taking advantage on the twins covered eyes you decided to leave a kiss on his lips, whispering congratulations on his full lips.

You grabbed the twins hands as Max made sure the cap covered most of Mila’s face and only showed part of her curls, but of course Luca still wasn’t convinced with the jacket.

“Papa, it itches,” Luca complained and you could still listen to the flashes and screams of your family surname.

“It’s a rain jacket, Luca. It’s not it itchy, and I am not requesting you to put it on, I am telling you to do it or I am going to do it,” Max never needed to change his voice or posture when reprimanding the kids, but usually his choice of words were enough to command the twins to comply.

That’s how you ended up in the Red Bull hospitality, with Luca running his hands through his hair after taking off the infamous jacket and letting the smell of caramel fill his nostrils.

Soon enough, stroopwafels were being served to the attendees, and especially everyone offering one to the Verstappen twins walking hand in hand, always supervised by you, or their grandmother, or their great grandmother.

"Mila, you can't say no to a stroopwafel," Luca told his sister showing off his dutch, especially since their Oma and super Oma were limiting English while in Holland.

"I am full so I am not accepting more food, Luca," Mila informed his brother as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"If you don't want them, give them to me,"

That was the first thing that went wrong.

The second one was when everybody was focused on the final laps before the red flag, your eyes glued to the screen and ears fully focused on Max’s radio. The perfect moment for Luca to take off the obnoxious jacket.

Thats when everything went wrong.

Max and you were woken up at the same time; head pounding from the celebrations and clothes thrown somewhere on the floor, but it didn't stop you from hearing your son crying while throwing up, waking his sister up in the process.

"Sweetheart, get dressed oh my God," Max said throwing you one of his shirts as he put on his discarded boxers before making your way to the twins bathroom.

You stayed with Mila, calming her down and assuring her nothing was wrong and his brother probably ate something and his body was reacting, while closely listening to Max comforting Luca trying to assure him he was going to feel better eventually.

You thought that was it, but of course it wasn't, because now neither you nor Max were sure of the headache was because of the adrenaline, the drinks or the lack of sleep from Luca's constant vomiting.

Gross.

But that was how you learned that it wasn't just the stroopwafels. The small version of Max Verstappen had a severe case of sweet tooth and didn't deny himself the flavors from his country with fresh poffertjes, a couple of pannenkoeken with sweet toppings, were on the top of Mila's head as you tried to understand how a six year old managed to fit so much food on his stomach.

Then came the fever and the dull pain in his ears.

The first thing you managed was to go back to Monte Carlo, at least that way he’d be sick on his own room and own place, where the older and more tired Jim and Sass would fall asleep on the feet of his bed.

For some miracle, the twins had managed to fall asleep during the short flight, allowing you to snuggle into Max’s side, who pulled a thick blanket on top to cover both your bodies, resting his head on top of yours while he enjoyed the relaxed motion of your fingertips drawing shapes on his shoulder.

“Max?” You softly pronounced his name, he softly groaned in acknowledgement. “When did we decide to have children?” You asked and Max laughed with his eyes closed.

He opened his blue eyes and left a kiss on you lips before he started falling asleep again, mumbling that maybe you two weren’t the best with decision making.

“Do you think we should leave M with the sitter and bring Luca to the ER?” Max questioned, this time it wasn’t your playful husband, it was the worried dad, the one who decided to leave his home celebrations, enjoying being the home hero with his entire family, the well deserved late nights partying after equaling Sebastian’s record.

“I’ll call the doctor but don’t worry, you have a couple of days to rest before Monza, and we weren’t even supposed to come back home so just enjoy the quiet days,” you kissed his temple. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Holland? You know I’ll manage with the kids,”

“Don’t even say that again, i’m sorry I didn’t keep an eye on him, he didn’t listen to me and didn’t use the fucking jacket and then ate his entire weight on sugar,” Max sounded truly disappointed in himself.

“Are you going to make me tell you that you were working and barely had a moment to take a breath? Don’t be stupid, honey,” you said and Max smiled.

“I love it when you tell me off but call me honey,” He dedicated you his best sleepy smile.

A car was waiting for you in Nice to take you home, Max getting ahead of you and calling the twins doctor, and of course as soon as he saw the pale looks of the usually flushed Luca, his droopy eyes and constant shivering, he gave him some medication and gave the very stern order: no flying for Luca Verstappen until his ear infection was gone, meaning the plans for your family to go to Monza were postponed until further notice.

Little did you know that Mila was already plotting the tears to attend Monza, regardless of his brother’s illness.

#max verstappen fic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen blurb #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #f1 x you #f1 x reader #max verstappen au #dad!max verstappen

1K notes · View notes

prettyyoungandbored · 9 months ago

Note

hi, me again, desperate and lacking in Charlie energy lately. I fear I need to read something about him that doesn’t require me putting any effort in so I’m here with a request.

Adult Charlie, working a job he always feared, and wasting away another Friday night at the bar with expensive whiskey and stale cigarettes. That’s when a girl shuffles in looking gorgeous as ever and soaked from the rain. He obviously can’t help but flirt, the night turns out different for the both of them. I need the tension, I need it 😩

I took this, ran with it, and decided to make it part of the engaged Charlie and Y/N universe. Think of this as how they first met.

Hope you enjoy!

Charlie Meets His Match - CHARLIE DALTON

Pairing: Adult!Charlie Dalton x Fem!Reader

Same couple from this and this and this

NOT MY GIF

Charlie exhale, cigarette smoke escaping his lips and the week’s stressers leaving his body. He was grateful for the noise of the other bar patrons laughing and chatting as it kept him from his thoughts.

Just like he’d suspected, and feared, he ended up in the banking industry. He was working for his dad and while the gig paid well enough for him to have a townhouse in New York City, he could still feel the weight of the mindless and boring work crush his soul spirit.

“This shit doesn’t get easier, does it, Lou?” he asked his secretary earlier that afternoon.

Louise, or Lou as she preferred to be called, shook her head. She was a few years older than him and had become his confidant in the office.

“That’s why you’re supposed to go out and enjoy your weekends, Dalton,” she reminded him. “Go out. Get laid. Have fun while you still can.”

She paused and pouted teasingly. “Or did you already screw your way through the Upper West Side?”

“It was two women.”

“Didn’t your old boarding school buddy want to set you up with someone?”

“His girlfriend did and I’m not in the mood to pretend to be interested in a woman.”

Lou set down her pen. “Go to a bar, Charlie. Not one of those fancy bars. Like I’m talking packed on Friday and Saturday night kind of bar. Like the floor is packed. That’s more of your scene anyway.”

He went to a bar Knox had told him to check out. He asked Knox join him, but his childhood friend had to leave the city for the weekend.

Charlie also considered wandering around the city, but the heavy rain made him reconsider.

So there he was, enjoying his whiskey in between puffs of smoke. He turned his head to scan the room when his eyes fell to the door opening and she walked in.

Charlie’s fell open slightly as he took in the sight of her. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that drew him to her, but all he knew is that he couldn’t look away from her.

She eyed the room herself, looking for someone. He prayed that whoever it was she was looking for, it wasn’t a man.

She ran a hand through her soaked hair as she walked toward to the bar area and cursed the group of guys sitting next to him. She took a seat at the end and Charlie knew exactly what to do.

He flagged down the bartender.

“See that girl on the end there? I’d like to pay for her first drink.”

The bartender nodded and made his way to the woman. Charlie watched her light up at the bartender and order a drink.

When the bartender returned with a glass of red wine, she tried to give him cash. He shook his head and motioned to Charlie.

And when her eyes landed on him, he could feel his heart burst. He smiled, toasting his drink at her.

I look like a fucking moron, he thought to himself.

That voice went silent when she smiled at him and suddenly, he felt like the luckiest man in the entire world.

His heart clenched as she grabbed her drink and walked toward him.

“Thank you,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Happy to make your night,” Charlie nodded.

She held out her hand. “Y/N.”

He shook it. “Charlie.”

As luck would have it, the person next to Charlie got up from their seat. He gestured toward it and Y/N sat down.

“So have you bought drinks for all the women tonight or am I just really lucky?” she teased, taking a sip of her wine.

“Just you,” he said. “Your boyfriend gonna beat me up for it?”

She chuckled. “If I had one, maybe. But for now you’re safe.”

Waves of relief washed over him. She was single and appeared to be interested. All he had to do was keep her interest. He could do that, right?

That’s when he realized he never felt this worried about losing a woman’s interest before.

“What brings you to this bar?” he asked.

She set her glass down on the wooden bar top. “I was supposed to be meeting a friend but it appears she’s late.” She paused. “Well that or she’s waiting for the rain to settle so it won’t ruin her hair.”

“In her defense, not all of us can look good with wet hair like you can,” he remarked.

He watched her bite her bottom lip. “You’re quite the flatterer, Charlie.”

He shrugged casually. “I aim to please.”

Y/N snorted. His demeanor softened a bit. He’d never had a girl snort at him before.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re cute.”

In any other circumstance, he would have rolled his eyes. But with her, it was the highest praise he’d ever received in his life.

“So what is it you do when you’re not trying to woo women at bars?” she asked, leaning forward a bit.

He set down his drink, sighing softly. “I work in banking.”

“Doesn’t sound like you like it very much.”

He shrugged. “It pays the bills…and for drinks for girls I think are beautiful.”

“And if you weren’t worried about bills or paying for other girls’ drinks, what would you do?” she asked.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“If you could do anything -anything at all- what would you do?”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him that. He thought for moment.

“I don’t know honestly,” he finally answered, rubbing his chin. “Maybe travel. See the world. Or just play the saxophone professionally.”

Her eyes lit up with intrigue. “You play the saxophone?”

“Yeah. My parents forced me to play an instrument and basically forced the clarinet on me. I hated it and decided to try the saxophone instead.”

She grinned. “And how often do you practice safe sax?”

He nearly spit out his whiskey from laughing.

“Are you ok?” she asked, watching him cough.

Oh yeah. Just making an ass out of myself in front of the woman of my dreams, he thought.

“Yeah I just…wow,” he said, collecting himself. “Sorry. I’m not used to women making those kind of jokes.”

Y/N cocked her head back. “What do you mean by that?”

“A beautiful girl with dirty humor,” he explained with a smirk. “That’s my kind of girl.”

Her smile grew as she took another sip of wine. “What a coincidence. I like handsome men with a dirty sense of humor.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded her head and Charlie leaned on the bar. “And what do you do when you’re not charming men with your dirty humor.”

“I work at a hair salon,” she said.

“You must be very good with your hands then.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” she purred, picking up on his tone. “In fact, I’ve actually had people tell me I have magic hands.”

Charlie leaned forward. “I might have to-.”

“Oh this is perfect!”

Charlie turned his head to see Izzie, Knox’s girlfriend, beaming at him and Y/N.

“Well look who decided to show up,” Y/N giggled. “Took you long enough.”

“It’s a long story but I see you found company.” Izzie’s eyes turned to Charlie. “Well, I was hoping to introduce you two during that double date that you refuse to go on.”

Charlie opened his mouth to respond when he heard Y/N snickering. He was relieved she wasn’t offended.

Izzie whipped her head. “Oh you don’t get to laugh,” she told her friend. “You’ve been putting it off too.”

The red head took a step back and said, “I’m gonna let you two enjoy your drinks and head home, but clear your calendars for Monday night because that’s when we’re all having dinner.”

With that, she turned away, her red hair bouncing with joy.

Y/N turned to Charlie. “So, you’re the friend I’ll supposedly be giddy over.”

“And are you giddy?” Charlie smirked.

She hummed lowly. “I don’t know.”

He put his hand on his chest. “You know how to kill a man’s ego.”

It was her turned to smirk. “How about I make it up to you?”

“How’s that?”

“You wanna get out of here?”

#charlie dalton #dead poets society fanfic #dead poets society #charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton imagine #gale hansen

72 notes · View notes