#red ghost driver | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheollollipop · 1 month ago

Text

pole position. | k. mingyu

genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

wc: 10.6k

content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)

🏎️ author's note!

f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.

There are some names you never really outrun.

In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.

"YN's back?"

As if I were a curse.

It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.

It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.

And yet

I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.

The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.

Kim Mingyu.

I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.

An invitation.

It's not the first time he's tried.

Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.

He doesn't take rejection well.

He never has.

But this... this is different.

This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.

God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.

But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.

He wants to be a legend.

And legends always come with ghosts.

I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.

"Monza

Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.

Come see what a real legacy looks like."

– M

My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.

Deep, amused, cocky.

Come see what a real legacy looks like.

What a bastard.

I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.

I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.

Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.

He knows what it costs.

Knows what it takes.

Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.

I miss the sound.

The roar.

The rush.

I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.

And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.

Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.

I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.

I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.

I'm YN.

Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.

Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.

Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.

And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.

Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.

⸻

I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.

Nostalgia is dangerous.

So is desire.

I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.

And there he is.

Kim Mingyu.

Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.

He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.

A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.

He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.

"And I thought you'd keep running."

I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."

But the way he looks at me.

Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.

That's the problem.

That's what will ruin us both.

The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.

It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.

The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.

"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

I don't look at him.

"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.

"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.

"Temporary lapse in judgment."

He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."

I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."

His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."

I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.

We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.

The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.

I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.

"You really trust her?" I ask.

Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."

"Big words."

"Big machine."

I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."

"I don't make them."

That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."

His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."

"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."

"You think that's me?"

"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."

We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.

Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."

"I don't."

He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"

I shove past him without answering.

⸻

The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.

Of course they are.

He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.

Petty.

Arrogant.

Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.

But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.

He's so fast.

Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.

He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.

Jesus.

I hate how impressed I am.

Worse. I hate that I expected it.

Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.

I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.

This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.

And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.

⸻

After practice, I stay put.

I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.

The door swings open.

He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.

"You came," he says simply.

I nod. "You drove."

He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"You're fast," I admit, finally.

He grins.

"But you already know that."

"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."

I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."

His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.

"I do," he says quietly.

It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.

"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."

He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"

"I know it is."

"I think it's something else."

"Let me guess. Fate?"

"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."

My throat tightens.

He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.

"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."

I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."

"But not me."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.

The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.

"YN?"

A voice I half recognize. I turn.

It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.

"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."

"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.

"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."

I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."

More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.

"What brings you back?"

"You working again?"

"Writing a piece?"

"You here with someone?"

I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.

"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."

They nod like they understand. They don't.

Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

"Drivers, to your cars."

Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.

I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.

Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.

The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.

And then there's him. Car #9.

He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

And then

Out.

The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.

Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.

It's lap seven when he starts his climb.

A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.

A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.

Pole.

Just like that.

The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.

When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.

Pole position: Kim Mingyu.

Time: 1:11.330

The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.

I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.

The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.

And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.

Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.

His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.

I don't move.

I don't clap.

Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.

Because I know exactly who he's looking for.

And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.

⸻

I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.

He finds me anyway.

"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.

"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."

He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."

"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"

He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."

"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."

"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."

His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.

But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.

"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.

"You still talk like you're untouchable."

"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"

"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."

That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.

But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.

"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"

"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."

He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."

The words slice, even though I see them coming.

I stand straighter. "Don't."

His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."

"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"

"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."

I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.

He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.

"You remember Spa?"

Of course, I remember Spa.

The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.

He thinks bringing that up softens me.

It doesn't.

"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."

"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."

"You didn't."

"I should have."

"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."

"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."

He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.

But I don't now.

Not in this one.

I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"

"You weren't exactly stingy with them."

"You had one good overtake."

"It was beautiful, and you know it."

"It was reckless and nearly illegal."

"That's how I knew you'd notice."

The air tightens between us.

He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.

"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."

Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."

I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.

"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."

I freeze.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."

"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."

That hits harder than he expects.

He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.

"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."

Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.

Because the worst part isn't that he's good.

It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.

And worse, how much of me would go with him.

⸻

Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.

Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.

I almost don't come.

But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.

Not a date. Not really.

Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.

Including Kim Mingyu.

I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.

Good.

I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.

Petty? Maybe.

But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.

I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.

So, I slip away.

Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.

It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.

I close my eyes.

"You like bringing someone new to every event?"

I don't turn around.

"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"

His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.

"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."

I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.

"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."

He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"

I cross my arms. "He's harmless."

"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."

We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.

Then, softer

"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."

I freeze.

It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.

"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."

"Not a great excuse."

"I know."

I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.

"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."

"Then what does?"

I look at him.

"You."

That wasn't supposed to slip.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.

Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.

"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."

"I'm not."

"You will."

"I won't if you stay."

"I'm not staying."

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

He takes a step forward. "You're not."

"I can't do this."

"We're not doing anything—"

"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"

I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."

"That wasn't—"

"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."

He flinches.

"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."

He's quiet. Too quiet.

And the silence is suddenly unbearable.

"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.

"YN—"

But I don't stop.

I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.

⸻

I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages.

MINGYU:

I shouldn't have let you walk away. Can we talk? Please. You still there? I didn't mean to hurt you.

I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.

The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have said any of it.

But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.

By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.

I know this circuit like muscle memory.

I know Mingyu better.

He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.

He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.

But when they go out...

He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.

Lap after lap, he's off.

Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.

And that's what scares me.

"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."

"Tyres won't last at this rate."

I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.

"Box, box, box," comes the call.

He doesn't answer.

On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.

When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.

"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."

"I'm not—"

"He asked."

I don't ask why.

The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.

He won't look at me.

Not once.

He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.

The pit wall murmurs.

"His sector time dropped again."

"Something's wrong."

No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.

I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.

"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.

I press a fist to my lips.

This is my fault.

I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.

Because it does.

And I know that. I've always known that.

Lap 42.

He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.

Barely.

The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."

Silence.

My heart thunders like a race start.

The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.

This isn't about the race anymore.

This is about me.

I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.

He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.

It punishes.

It ends careers.

It took my father.

And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.

I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."

The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."

"Then make him."

He hesitates.

I close my eyes.

"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."

The air in the garage is suffocating.

I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.

He's going to crash.

Lap 65 of 78.

Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.

He still hasn't responded to strategy.

Not since Lap 42.

Not since he saw me in the garage.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.

"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."

"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."

Silence.

Again.

They're running out of options.

I'm already moving before I realize it.

The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.

"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."

There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.

I don't wait.

My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Mingyu."

Nothing.

"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"

Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.

"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"

A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.

I close my eyes. Lower my voice.

"I know why you're doing this."

Sector one—green.

He's pushing harder. Too hard.

"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"

"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"

My voice wavers.

"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”

"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."

The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.

"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."

I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.

"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."

A breath.

Then, finally, after laps of nothing—

"You had me at Mingyu."

His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.

I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

Lap 73.

He steadies.

His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.

Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.

He's back.

He's himself again.

"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."

"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."

Lap 76. The fight is on.

I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.

Final lap.

The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—

—and that's when it happens.

A puff of smoke.

"Yellow flag, Sector 1."

I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"

"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."

My knees nearly give out as I see it.

Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.

He's still fighting.

My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.

He's never stopped.

And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.

The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.

But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.

He heard me.

He stayed.

But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—

What if I hadn't said anything at all?

Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.

And then I see him.

Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.

P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.

He hasn't seen me yet.

He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.

I should leave.

This is his moment. Not mine.

But I can't move.

I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.

And then he turns.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else goes silent.

He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.

I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.

Then he starts walking toward me.

The crowd parts for him like it knows.

Suddenly, I can't breathe.

His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.

He stops.

Too close.

He doesn't speak.

So I do.

"You didn't even flinch."

He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."

I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."

"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."

My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."

"I was trying to win a race."

"And almost died doing it."

His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.

"Worth it."

I shove his shoulder. Hard.

He doesn't budge.

"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."

His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.

"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."

"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."

"It did."

The words slam into me.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.

"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."

My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.

"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."

I blink.

And blink again.

"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."

His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"

I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.

I step closer.

"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."

He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"

He cuts off.

I stare up at him.

He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.

And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.

"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."

"I know."

"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."

I clamp my mouth shut.

But he hears it.

God, of course, he does.

Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.

"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."

He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.

"I've been in love with you since Spa."

I suck in a breath.

"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you'd spit it back in my face."

"I probably would've."

He laughs under his breath.

I can't look at him.

But I also can't not.

We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."

"I know," he says softly.

And then, finally, he steps back.

The space between us is unbearable.

"Find me later," he says.

I don't answer.

But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.

The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.

I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.

I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.

"Rough night?"

I don't even have to turn around.

The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.

Julius.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.

He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.

"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."

I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."

I roll my eyes and push past him.

He follows, of course.

"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"

I stop short.

"Don't call him that."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."

I see red.

"Excuse me?"

"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.

But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.

Mingyu.

Standing just across the paddock.

Watching.

For a split second, our eyes lock.

And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.

Because all he sees is this.

Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.

I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.

I move.

Fast.

"Mingyu—"

But he turns.

Gone.

Just like that.

Shit.

I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"

He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"

"I'm not playing games."

"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."

I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.

"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.

Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.

"You always were more fun when you were angry."

I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.

I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.

⸻

I don't remember getting back to the hotel.

I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.

The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.

That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.

Again.

I grabbed my phone.

Can we talk?

No response.

Please.

Still nothing.

I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

I hung up before it could finish.

The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.

But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.

I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.

On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.

Is he there?

A pause.

Jinho: Rooftop. But... maybe don't push it tonight.

I stared at that for a long moment.

I'm already on my way.

The rooftop was quiet.

Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.

Mingyu.

He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.

He didn't have to. He knew it was me.

"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.

Still nothing.

"But I needed to explain."

"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.

"I want to."

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.

"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."

Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.

"I saw him touch you."

"I didn't touch him back."

"But you didn't pull away."

I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."

His stare didn't waver.

"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."

"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"

That cut deep.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.

"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't say it back."

I froze.

"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

He waited.

The silence stretched between us, unbearable.

"I can't," I whispered.

He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."

"It's already real."

I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."

"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."

My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.

He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."

I shook my head. "I'm scared."

"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."

I blinked, eyes stinging.

He stepped in.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.

"Say it," he whispered.

I couldn't.

So he kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.

I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."

I didn't answer.

I just took his hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.

Like this was enough.

We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.

Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.

There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.

"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."

The elevator dinged.

He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.

Room 1427. Keycard. Click.

The door shut behind us.

And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.

"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"

"Yes," I breathed.

He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."

I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.

Then he stepped back.

And stared.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."

I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.

"Then touch me."

That broke him.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.

He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.

Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.

"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."

"Mingyu—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.

"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."

"You never had to."

Then his mouth was on me.

I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.

"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."

I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.

He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."

"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."

He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.

When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.

So did he.

"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."

We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.

Deep, intentional, raw.

Each thrust was a confession.

Each moan, a word I couldn't say.

"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."

I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."

He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.

"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.

"I'm—Mingyu—"

And then I shattered.

I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

When it was over, we stayed there.

Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine.

"I'm still scared," I whispered.

He kissed me softly. "Me too."

"But I'm here."

His arms wrapped tighter around me.

"Good," he said. "Stay."

He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.

"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.

I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."

Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.

His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.

"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."

"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."

He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.

Only feeling.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.

And I let him.

"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."

"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."

When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.

His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.

He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.

"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."

Tears stung my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."

"Say it now."

My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.

"I love you, Mingyu."

His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.

The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.

"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."

He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.

And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.

"You mean it?" he asked quietly.

"I've never meant anything more."

He smiled,messy and perfect.

He kissed me again.

Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.

I was.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.

"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.

I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.

I let the silence settle.

Until I whispered, "What happens now?"

He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."

That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.

"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."

I looked up at him.

He met my eyes. Serious now.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."

I waited.

"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."

I nodded. "I know."

"But I also know it scares you."

My throat tightened.

"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."

"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.

He didn't flinch.

"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."

I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.

And then it broke.

The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.

"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.

I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.

"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."

"You can't promise that," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.

"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."

I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.

He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."

I nodded, voice too broken to speak.

And he held me like he'd never let go.

Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.

I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.

And this time, I didn't dream of losing him.

I dreamt of staying.

⤷ network tags: @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

#k-films #blossomnet #seventeen mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #mingyu smut #seventeen smut #f1 au #seventeen fic #seventeen

1K notes · View notes

oaksgrove · 2 months ago

Note

hiiii! i just read your passenger princess fic, and i got an idea.

what about a reader who isn’t used to princess treatment?

opening a car door? john, why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.

gaz, why is there a dress in the bedroom? you bought it for me because we’re going on a date? why though? I’ve got plenty of dresses.

johnny, whats with the new flowers? they’re for me? why though?

simon, you don’t have to tell me ‘i’m beautiful’. it takes away from time you could be doing something important.

just ‘I know you can do it, but let me’ vibes

Princess Treatment

pairing: John Price x Reader; Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader; Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader; Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader; Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader.

synopsis: You’re strong. Capable. Fiercely independent. And yet… your boyfriend seems determined to treat you like royalty—each in their own uniquely over-the-top way. Maybe “princess treatment” isn’t about weakness—it’s about being chosen, cherished, and loved without condition.

warning: Pure fluff, soft domestic moments, mild language, emotional vulnerability, excessive acts of service, unapologetic simping.

word count: 2018

John Price:

The click of the car unlocking was almost instant the moment you stepped outside. The cold nipped at your nose, the evening breeze catching the hem of your coat as you moved toward the passenger side.

Before your hand could even brush the door handle, John was there. Rounding the hood of the car in a few easy strides, one hand already reaching out, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat like he had all the time in the world.

“John,” you said, brows lifting, “why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.”

His hand paused mid-motion for a second, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he just smirked—warm, amused, a touch of mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You can,” he agreed, pulling the door open for you with a little flourish. “But you don’t have to. Let me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the softness of it. Like it wasn’t a gesture he was performing for show, but something as natural to him as breathing.

Still, your feet hesitated, and John tilted his head, giving you a look like, Are we going to do this dance every time?

With a sigh, you slid into the seat, settling in as he closed the door behind you with careful gentleness. The quiet click of it felt… final. Intentional.

By the time he circled back around and dropped into the driver’s seat beside you, you were still frowning slightly, staring straight ahead.

He noticed, of course. John always noticed.

“You gonna argue every time I treat you well?” he asked lowly, voice dipping into that rough warmth that always seemed to unspool your defenses. His hand reached across the console, fingers sliding over your thigh and giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.

“…Maybe,” you muttered, too honest for your own good.

John chuckled, low and fond. “I’ll just have to keep convincing you, then.”

You turned to look at him. That scruffy face, the weathered lines that had deepened with age and war and laughter, the eyes that had always been more patient than you thought they’d be.

“Is this a campaign now?”

“It’s always been one,” he said. “You just didn’t notice.”

The drive started in silence, but it was the kind that felt like something blooming between you rather than anything heavy. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy, soothing arcs.

And when he parked and jogged around the front of the car again to open your door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt, you didn’t argue this time.

You just let him.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You almost missed it when you walked into the bedroom—distracted by the lingering emails in your head, the mental list of things you still needed to get done, the ache in your shoulders from a day that just wouldn’t quit. But there it was.

Laid neatly across the duvet.

A dress.

Deep red. Silky soft, with a gentle shimmer that caught the fading evening light from the window. Elegant, understated, yet somehow—it made your chest flutter. The tag was still attached, dangling loosely at the neck, but the price had been carefully removed.

Your brows furrowed.

“Kyle?” you called out, voice echoing down the hallway. “Why is there a dress in the bedroom?”

A familiar pair of footsteps padded closer, slow and smug in their rhythm.

He appeared at the doorframe, shoulder leaned lazily against the wood, arms crossed, that mischievous grin tugging at his lips like he’d just played the winning hand.

“Bought it for you,” he said simply. “We’ve got a dinner reservation. Something fancy. You deserve a night out.”

You blinked at him, then looked back at the dress. Then back at him.

“But why?” you asked. “I’ve got plenty of dresses—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted gently, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. “But this one’s from me.”

His hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with all the reverence in the world.

“And I like the idea of seeing you in it.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to protest that you didn’t need a dress to feel beautiful or cared for—but the words didn’t come. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his hand lingered just a second longer than needed, warm and grounding against your skin.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, soft and slow, and you felt it ripple through your bones—the kind of affection that didn’t ask anything from you. Just wanted to give.

“Let me spoil you a bit, love,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You do everything for everyone else.”

Your fingers found his shirt, curling gently at the hem. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He chuckled, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of him. “Only if they’re happy tears. Otherwise, I’ll return the dress and take you out in your pajamas instead.”

You laughed against his chest, and when he kissed your temple again, you let yourself sink into him.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Dinner sounds nice.”

And in the mirror, later that evening, when you finally slipped into that deep red dress, you saw it—the soft smile on your face. The kind you hadn’t worn in a while.

Kyle noticed it too, when you walked out.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes drinking you in like it was the first time.

And for once, you didn’t deflect. You just smiled and let him take your hand.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The bathroom was quiet, except for the muted hum of the fan and the soft rhythmic motion of your toothbrush. It was a routine, grounding in its predictability—just one more box to tick off before bed. The lights were low, casting gentle shadows on the tile floor, and your shoulders were heavy with the quiet kind of tired that came after a long day.

You didn’t even notice him at first—Simon moved like a ghost, even out of uniform—but then you felt his presence behind you, the warm brush of air when he passed close.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and steady like a secret.

You paused mid-brush, blinking at your reflection.

A moment passed.

You leaned over the sink, spit into it, rinsed. Stared at yourself in the mirror and frowned.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” you said, not unkindly—just quiet, blunt, the way truths sometimes fall when you’re too tired to dress them up. “It takes away from time you could be doing something important.”

Behind you, Simon stilled.

The weight of silence fell over the room like a thick blanket.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

You watched him in the mirror as he came up behind you—broad frame solid and warm, his expression unreadable but not cold. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just looked at your reflection like he was trying to figure out how to hold something fragile.

“You are important,” he said softly. “This is important.”

Your fingers tightened around the toothbrush. The words hung there, heavy and simple.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to say anything. Maybe he just knew how easy it was for your mind to convince you that affection was indulgence, that love had to be earned by usefulness. You stared at your reflection, trying to see what he saw. Wondering if you ever would.

He leaned down, finally, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Warm. Present. Gentle in the way you weren’t used to being handled.

“If I only ever did things that were necessary,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “I’d have missed the best part of my life.”

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“You.”

Your heart cracked a little in your chest—just enough to let the warmth through.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe him yet. Maybe it would take time, soft moments like this, repeated and repeated until the walls inside you gave in.

But you leaned back into him, just a little. Let him take the toothbrush from your hand and set it gently down.

Let yourself be held.

Because if Simon—quiet, careful Simon—could learn to make space for softness… maybe you could, too.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

You blinked as you walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your socks quiet against the old tile floor.

There they were.

A new bouquet.

Sunflowers—bright and unapologetic in their joy—mixed with tiny white blossoms you couldn’t name, all tucked into a mason jar sitting square in the middle of the kitchen table. A ribbon tied lazily around the rim. Water droplets still clinging to the stems.

You stared.

Then turned slowly, already knowing who to blame.

“Johnny…” you started, voice laced with the kind of sleepy bewilderment that only came from early mornings and too many small surprises. “What’s with the new flowers?”

He was leaning against the counter, orange juice in hand, hair still damp from the shower, and a lazy smile already tugging at his mouth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“They’re for you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You squinted at him. “But… why though?”

Johnny chuckled, a soft sound that started in his chest and reached all the way to his eyes. He crossed the room in a few easy steps, set the glass down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

Your back met the warmth of his chest, and you sighed as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, his breath brushing your cheek.

“‘Cause your face lights up every time you see them,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough with sleep, a little tender with love. “And that? That’s worth the trip to the florist every bloody day.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there with him wrapped around you like a warm blanket, staring at the ridiculous jar of flowers like it was the most confusing, most beautiful thing in the world.

Then, softly, you pressed your face into his chest.

“Stop being cute,” you mumbled, muffled by the cotton of his shirt and the beat of his heart.

“Never,” he whispered against your temple, grinning. “You’re stuck with me.”

And you didn’t need to say it—but God, you were so glad you were.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme and something buttery-soft that had your stomach growling before you’d even crossed the threshold.

You padded in barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, fully prepared to take over and help—only to find Gary already elbow-deep in culinary excellence. A dishtowel slung over his shoulder, a pan sizzling on the stove, and that familiar hum vibrating in his chest as he stirred something with purpose.

“Smells amazing,” you murmured, reaching for the pot on instinct. “I’ll stir—”

“Nope.”

He gently nudged your hand away with the back of the spoon, not even looking up.

“Gary,” you huffed. “I can cook. You don’t have to—”

He finally turned his head and grinned, that boyish, crooked smile that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him in the same breath. He tapped the spoon lightly against your hand, playful but firm.

“I know you can do it,” he said with a wink. “But let me. Just this once.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “Is this one of your weird love languages?”

He shrugged, already back to stirring, back to humming. “Yeah. Feeding you until you admit I’m amazing.”

You watched him for a beat—watched the way he moved around the kitchen with that easy confidence, sleeves pushed up, forearm flexing as he tossed something into a pan, barefoot and casual like he belonged there, like this was his second skin.

The music playing low from his speaker was jazzy, mellow. The light from the kitchen window painted everything gold. The whole room smelled like something slow-cooked and careful. Like comfort.

With a sigh, you pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, chin resting in your palm as you watched him. “I’m not gonna admit it.”

“You will,” he said cheerfully, plating the food like you were a food critic instead of his tired partner who hadn’t eaten a real meal all day. “Eventually. When you taste this.”

When he set the plate in front of you—steaming, beautiful, perfectly balanced—your stomach growled audibly.

Gary smirked. “Told you.”

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Damn it.”

“Told you,” he laughed, leaning down to kiss your temple, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Come on. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart swelling. “Just tonight?”

He raised a brow. “What, you planning on arguing with your private chef every night?”

You smiled into your fork, cheeks warm. “Maybe.”

He slid into the seat across from you, mirroring your grin. “Then I’ll just keep winning.”

And the kitchen stayed warm, full of the scent of love and butter, and the quiet sound of laughter between bites.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

#call of duty fanfic #cod modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod 141 #task force 141 #john price x reader #captain price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gary roach sanderson x reader #roach x reader #cod blurb

975 notes · View notes

sir-heichou-smith · 6 months ago

Text

Hear me out...

141 getting back from deployment and you pick them up in Price's old pickup.

You pull up to personnel quarters, barely putting her in park before leaping out of the vehicle. The boys are waiting outside with a small ruck each, covered in bruises and bandages from their latest op.

Johnny gets to you first. Picking you up and spinning you around, smiling and laughing and full of grateful kisses. "Missed you so much bonnie," he says with a cheese grin.

You turn your head to look at Gaz and Price, pulling out of the Scot's squeeze to embrace the other two men. You feel a pair of eyes on you as your shirt rides up while in their arms.

Simon had taken the bags and stuffed them into the bed before waiting patiently (as a lethal sniper does) for his turn to get his hands on you.

Except, he takes one look at Price and the older man already knows what's about to take place in the back of his truck. He sneaks the keys from your grip, too distracted by your other boys to notice.

Except you very much notice when you're hauled into the small rear seats. Simon and Johnny crawling in after you. Price takes up the driver seat and Kyle sits to his right in the passenger.

It's a tight squeeze with the two massive men on either side of you. Simon remedies that by having you straddling his lap, speared on his thick cock; Johnny already has his fatigues loose around his hips, palming himself through his briefs.

"S'alright birdie, we're here now. Gonna take such good care a ya." Scarred hands grip your bare ass and squeeze hard enough to leave red marks and nail indents.

Johnny takes your right hand and places it on his crotch, rutting up into your touch like a desperate horn dog. "Cannae wait to get ya home, lass. Gonna make ye feel so good."

He takes you by the back of the neck, a bit of hair in his grip, and gently leans you back so your shoulders rest on their legs pressed together beneath you, and your head sits perched on the console in the middle of the two men up front. Price throws his arm around your face, elbow securing your head so it doesn't move. The smell of sweat and deodorant and something that's just Price fills your nose, and makes you clench your cunt harder around Ghost's cock.

As your back is forced into a deep arch, you do your best to bounce on the veiny cock stuffing your tight little cunt, but between Johnny's fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, the smell of Price and his sweat, and Simon jamming into that gooey spot inside do you in quick.

You swear you throw your back out with how hard you come, seeing stars and biting into the meaty arm caging your head in.

Johnny's the first to follow after you, groaning desperately with a skeleton clad hand wrapped around his throbbing length, and then it's Simon, not bothering to pull out so you get flooded with his hot, creamy seed.

Price lets up on his arm wrapped around you, and instantly you're pulled forward into strong arms. You couldn't really tell whose hands belonged to who, deep voices cooing into your ears and lips kissing all over your neck and face and shoulders.

"Don't think we're finished with you yet, dove. Once we get home, you're not leaving that bed til we say so." Price's voice comes from up front, strained and a bit breathless if Kyle's hand reaching over into his pants says anything at all.

Oh yeah. You're in for a long, strenuous, very much so worth it reunion. The massages and kisses and warm tea after will make up for it, you're sure.

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty mw2 #soapghost #ghostsoap #task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 #poly 141 #im still new at this theyre just thoughts i know theyre shit lmao #18+ mdni #ricky if i catch u ricky #if i catch u and ur a minor ricky #im blockin ur dumbass #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #john price #kyle gaz garrick

2K notes · View notes

redflagshipwriter · 7 months ago

Text

Ghost Driver 6

Masterpost

His body was shaking. Jason came back to himself in fits and starts, mind suffering through the sludge of a concussion and heavy duty pain medication. His ears had finally stopped ringing after the explosion. He was aware enough to know that he had been in and out of it for what must have been hours.

He checked in with himself: he hurt. His body hurt, like he had hit a wall at high speed because of the uh, the explosion. His eye ached obnoxiously, and he had a crick in his neck. Jason rolled it cautiously. “This is not my beautiful sofa,” he said. Where was he? He should be sleeping off his injuries in a shitty cold apartment in downtown Gotham. The world rumbled around him like he was on top of an old water heater, or traveling at high speed.

“Definitely not,” said Dickie.

Oh. It was another dream. He closed his eyes. There was no scenario in which Batman took him back to the cave that didn’t involve waking up on a bed in a room with no shoelaces. He was scrunched into the front seat of a vehicle– that was the source of the shaking. A motor. He peeled open one eye to reconfirm that the world outside was wavy and green.

“This is different.” He didn’t feel much of anything when he looked at it. It was kinda dumb. He deserved a more substantial hallucinatory sequence after the new worst day of his life “Hey, was I really fuckin annoying when I was little? Is that why you didn’t like me? Because I dreamed I was on a road trip with little me and I gotta say, he didn’t deserve to have his head beat in with a crowbar, but he was truly obnoxious.” He grimaced. So sincere. Christ. He was an idiot and he always had been. Of course Bruce would never choose his son over his morals.

“Not a dream,” said a new voice. “Sorry.” They coughed.

Wait. Jason struggled to put it together. He did know that voice, but the guy it came out of was all wrong. “You look like a space mermaid,” he told Danny Fenton disapprovingly. “I am not a pirate. What are you doing? There’s no coherency in this dream.” He waved a hand around and immediately regretted it. “Go back to your other face.”

“Uh.” Danny sounded nervous. “This is just what I look like, all the time.” He gave a very bad fake laugh.

That was suspicious. Jason considered this. Fuck, his head was pounding. He sat up and fought past nausea to assess what was going on around him better.

Dick was staring at him inside the cockpit of an unidentified vehicle. He was aiming for a cheerfully detached mien, but Jason saw right through it. Dick was stressed out of his big dumb pumpkin head. Next to him was a Robin.

Jason narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t a ghost or vision. That was the new kid, upgraded uniform and all. “You lack panache,” he told Tim Drake disdainfully. He skimmed over the techno mermaid version of the incredibly hot getaway driver he had promised to protect from Batman and had the dim suspicion that he had fucked that up. He nodded at the vampire who was driving their spaceship through green air. “Hey, man.”

“...Hello,” said the vampire.

“Ignore him,” Danny hastily said. He gave Jason a queasy smile and twisted his fingers together. “You’re up up now? Sorry, you missed kiiiind of a lot. When you didn’t come back I decided to figure out what happened to you and I did kidnap a guy, so we have to fix that with paperwork.” He paused. “Also I did kidnap Robin a little bit. But that was an honest mistake! I thought he was dead.”

Jason watched this babbling, perplexed but charmed. “Who else did you kidnap?” His voice was a little choked up. He had kidnapped Robin? Batman must be losing his mind. He fought down a hysterical giggle. Dickie was here too, hell. The Bat-aneurism would be blinding.

The vampire heaved a massively put-upon sigh. “Some ruffian styling himself as a Joker,” he drawled. He was so powerfully unimpressed that his words took a moment to penetrate Jason’s brain.

He froze.

“So dear Phantom here gifted him to Skulker.” He pronounced ‘Skulker’ like the name might leave mud in his mouth if he wasn’t careful with it. “Skulker is disinterested in giving up his toy, so we are now in a very exciting chase.” The vampire sneered.

Jason hauled himself upwards with difficulty. His body felt so heavy. Every muscle hurt. “We are chasing him?”

“No, he is chasing us.” Dick pointed a thumb towards the back. “We’re, uh.” His whole face twitched. “We’re towing the Joker behind us. Skulker keeps trying to harpoon him to get him back.”

The ship jerked violently. Jason looked over to the vampire pilot, who was serenely unaffected by the violent subject matter.

He took a moment to experience childlike wonder. What had Danny done while he was unconscious? How had he pulled this off? Was it an elaborate proposal? If so, he didn’t need to try that hard, goddamn. Jason had an empty ring finger.

Jason considered all of this and tried to be cool about it. “What’s the end goal?”

Dickie leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and make deadpan eye contact. “We are going to take the Joker to a private prison in the Infinite Realms run by a cowboy ghost named Walker, and I am going to oversee transfer paperwork to give to Inspector Gordon.” He said it all like it made some sense. “Can’t have the Joker disappear without a record.”

“...Right,” Jason said, remembering that bit of information. He inserted as much disdain as possible into his voice for the sheer fun of it. “You’re a fucking cop.”

Dickie flinched.

“That’s right,” Danny said, pleased and impressed. “How did you know that? I found him at the police station and he said he would help out. This is my estranged godfather vampire, Vlad.” He gestured at the driver. “And I’m Phantom,” he said, despite being obviously Danny Fenton in a superhero transformation.

“...I’m Jason, but you can call me honey,” he said.

Dick choked on air.

Phantom flushed a very pleasing teal.

Jason flung an arm over Danny’s shoulder and reeled him in. He might have also leaned on him a bit, but that was the blood loss talking. He wasn’t swooning. “Tell me about this prison and how you feel about gold versus silver.”

Drake made a gagging sound.

“No, shh,” Dickie said quietly. “I want to see where this is going.”

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main #red ghost driver

671 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

Note

You tell them you paid $200 to put premium air in your tires.

Anon! I am SCREAMING! This prompt has me cackling in the best way possible. I know that this comes from a TikTok trend, and I've seen a few of the videos under this prank, and they're absolutely hilarious. I had a very fun time with this one. Giggled during the world writing process.

Task Force 141 x Reader

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings: swearing, humor, pranks

Word Count: 400

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Love,” breathes John, placing his hands on either side of you. “You did what?”

“The low tire pressure light came on—”

“I know that. After.”

“I stopped at the shop you always take my car to. They offered me premium air.”

John takes a shuddering breath. “Premium air?”

“Yes,” you beam. “I got a good deal.”

“A good deal?” he repeats.

“Half off! Two hundred dollars.”

John blinks. His face growing pale. “What?”

You wave your hand flippantly. “It’s usually four hundred.”

“Four hundred?” John’s voice spikes, almost cracking.

“Helps with suspension!”

“Fucking hell. Show me the bloody receipt.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny twists in the driver seat, staring you down. “You did what?”

“I put premium air in the tires. It was a deal. Came with the oil change.”

Johnny’s mouth drops open. Closes. Opens again. “Premium air,” he says, almost absently.

“They only charged me two hundred.”

“Two hundred?” chokes Johnny.

“Why?” you ask innocently. “Is that bad?”

“Bloody hell, love,” he groans, leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes.

“Used your credit card for the points, too!” you beam, giving Johnny your best smile.

Johnny sighs and starts the car. “You’re lucky you’re cute and I love you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Baby, listen.”

“It’s great, isn’t it? It’ll help with the balance.”

“The balance?” asks Kyle. He mutters your name and then rubs his hands over his face.

“Should I not have gotten the premium air upgrade?” you ask.

Kyle is hanging by a thread. He breathes deep, and holds his hands out in front of him.

“Do you have the receipt?

“No.”

“Where did you take the car?”

You frown. “I did it for you. Are you not happy?”

Kyle sighs. “I love you. I am grateful. Just tell me where you went. I only want to talk with them.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I said the tires needed to be rotated.”

“I know,” you say. “But they made me an offer. Said it was a good deal.”

“Premium air?”

“Yes,” you shrug. “And?”

Simon goes red in the face. “How much did they charge for ‘premium air?’”

“Two hundred.”

Simon stares up at the sky. “And how much did they charge you for the tire rotation.”

“One fifty.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “Get in the fucking car.”

“Why?” you snap. “Did I do something wrong?”

Simon sighs loudly. “No. Just want to talk to the fucking wanker that sold you premium fucking air.”

3K notes · View notes

hungharrington · 1 month ago

Note

happy birthday angel!! giving steve some road head on a scenic drive would be a total dream 😋😋😋😋 (list number 2)

ROAD HEAD!!!!!! it’s diabolical & absolutely some menace!reader shit, let’s get some dick sucking on in here <3 gn!reader, 1.5k, oral (m receiving), MDNI this entire blog is 18+

If Steve knew how meticulously planned it was, he might actually commend you.

Really, you’ve outdone yourself.

It’s the perfect stretch of road. He’s wearing those tiny red swim shorts that have the drawstring on the outside—at your recommendation, of course. No shirt because of the heat, though the thatch of hair on his chest is enough to have you sweating.

And you even had the forethought to do all the driving yesterday, so Steve would take up the mantle today automatically. No suspicion aroused whatsoever.

Yeah, you’ve planned this shit.

But if Steve knew enough to commend you, that meant your plan had failed. Besides, you’ll get your prizes elsewhere today anyways.

“Isn’t it nice?” You ask, reaching across to give Steve’s thigh an excitable squeeze. You leave your hand there.

“Yeah, baby,” Steve says warmly, taking his eyes off the road and scenery ahead to smile at you. It’s sweet as sugar, his fondness evident.

He reaches down and squeezes your hand on his thigh briefly.

“Thanks for choosing to do this, I don’t think would’ve thought to.”

He casts his eyes back out the coast that you’re meandering along, the road mostly straight, except for an occasional bend. You passed someone heading the other way fifteen minutes ago.

Otherwise, for as far as the eye can see, you might be the only car out on the road.

Plan unfolding perfectly, you shift your hand further up Steve’s thigh.

“Well, thank you for driving us,” You counter. You shift, twisting your body to face his more easily, and your fingers trail higher, tangling them with the drawstring of his shorts.

“Y’know that’s no issue for my- oh,” Steve’s tone twists as you tug at one the strings gently.

His gaze darts down at his lap, then follows your arm up to your face— and from the simpering smile on your face, he cottons on quickly.

“You—” He starts, his hands not moving from the wheel, but his eyes narrowed.

“Uh huh.”

You tug the string again, the bow of his shorts coming undone.

“So this—?”

He still hasn’t moved his hands, but when you glance up he’s got his tongue pressed into his cheek, as if he can’t believe your nerve. Or his luck.

“Uh huh.” Dipping your fingers into the waistband, you pull it out to loosen it.

“You are a—”

The end of his sentence is swallowed in a cough as you curl your fingers around his cock easily. It’s warm, still soft but you can feel it beginning to stiffen in your grip.

“I’m a what?” You goad with a grin, your grip beginning to skim up and down slowly.

Steve grows rigid in the drivers seat, his thighs tenser than before, shoulders suddenly pressed firmly against the seat. He exhales heavily out his nose and the car accelerates with a loud rev, just a moment, before Steve realises the extra pressure he’s applying to the pedal.

He eases off the gas and you strike. In your hand, you draw up to the tip, pressing your thumb into the head and he jolts with a grunt. In your hand, his length thickens more rapidly.

“—menace.” He finishes, breath heavier now than it was a minute ago. “You’re a fuckin’ menace.”

Even so, he remains in place, tensed up, as you shift the fabric of his shorts down and free his cock. It bobs lowly and you take the moment to draw your fingers along his happy trail—the maddening path that leads down, down, down.

Saliva pools on your tongue. Something warm flares up between your thighs.

You’re more than hungry for a taste.

Your touch ghosts along his cock, more teasing than really touching, and you eye the road ahead quickly.

A glance at Steve’s face reveals his focus is split, gaze darting between the road and your hand in his lap. But it’s enough for you to duck beneath the seatbelt strapped across your chest and lean in closer.

“Don’t crash,” You say, half serious and half playful. It’s a straight road mostly from here on out, but even so Steve’s head thumps back against the headrest.

“You—” He begins, tone accusing, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you tilt his cock up, slotting the head of between your lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” He gasps, his last sentence forgotten.

The taste of his skin, the salt of today’s swim and the musk of himself, inspires a flush of lust down your spine. You let drool slip out, making it messy, as you begin to take more in your mouth.

“Honey,” Steve groans breathily.

You’re can’t tell if it’s a plea for mercy or a want for more — only sinking down further to let him fill your mouth. You can feel the rumble of the engine beneath you, but your ears are more tuned to laboured breathing above.

Something twinges in your stomach when you hear the adorable little hitch in Steve’s throat as you begin to move up and down. Lazied. Relaxed.

He groans again, softer this time, and gently, you feel a hand rest atop your head.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters, his fingers threading into your hair. He doesn’t push, just rests it there. You hear his head thump back against the headrest again. “Fuck, baby.”

You hum around his cock, pleased, and it inspires another motion from him—his hips jutting up into your mouth, forcing his cock in another inch.

The engine revs as Steve accidentally accelerates again. You cough at the unexpected change, not pulling off, but Steve’s already spilling over with apologies.

“Fuck, shit, sorry—” The hand in your hair strokes over your head tenderly, apologetic. The engine drones as it slows. “I’m sorry, that— you just—”

His sentence is swallowed by his own moan, languid and breathy. You’ve moved up, lips circling the head of his cock, your tongue moving deftly to lap up the leaking pre-cum. It’s where Steve’s most sensitive.

“I take it back,” Steve says, sounding out of breath.

The fingers in your hair curl, tightening but still not gripping tight. You can’t imagine the steering wheel is getting the same nice treatment. “I’m not— uh- fuckin’ sorry, you - you wanted this.”

The heat between your thighs flushes warmly and for the first time, you regret choosing this time and place — if only because Steve has an edge in his voice and you’d love nothing more for him to take it out on you. Well, your throat more specifically.

Instead, you only hum in agreement, as if saying yes I did and Steve groans loudly.

His thighs grow tenser and you can see the muscles in his tummy rippling as he restrains himself.

The grip in your hair twists a little tighter and Steve’s moans begin to bleed into each other, getting shorter, building and building. His hips shift a bit with each noise.

“Okay,” He says. “I’m-” His breaths stutter, noises still pitching up with every punched out moan. “Sweetheart, I’m— fuck, wait, I’m— I’m—”

Warmth floods your mouth, right as the car swerves suddenly to the left an inch or two, hastily corrected in the next moment. You let the ropes of cum coat the back of your throat as Steve keens pitifully, his hand only now pressing you further down, fingers curled tightly in your hair.

It’s a long moment, soft whines and curses pulled from Steve’s throat as he works through the high — now focused on making sure he’s still driving straight.

“You— fuck,” He gasps, hips still rolling and rutting. “You’re—gonna—kill me,” There’s little gaspy breaths between each word and a pleased bliss settles in the bottom of your stomach, friction stirring.

You pull up, lazy and languid, almost not wanting to part. You could just stay here, right? Warming his cock with your mouth, seeing how long it takes for his length to thicken up again.

The ache between your thighs begs you to.

The shiver in Steve’s thighs, the threadiness in his voice, tells you no.

Swallowing what’s in your mouth with an exaggerated sound of pleasure, you release his cock with a soft suckle and sit back. It’s worth it, getting to see the twitch in Steve’s spent cock at your soft moan—still interested, always interested when it comes to you.

You sit up properly and then slip beneath your seatbelt, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Steve’s knuckles are white with how hard they clutch the steering wheel, both hands now, and his chest still heaves as he tries to get his breath.

“You—” He starts again, words stuttering as you politely lean over and tuck him back into his pants. A shiver runs through him. You even do a bow as you retie his shorts for him.

“Thanks for driving us again, baby,” You say dotingly, reaching up to cup Steve’s cheek.

His hazel eyes meet yours, narrowed as if you’ve just set a challenge. He picks a hand off the wheel, capturing your outstretched one and holding it as he turns to press a kiss to your palm.

“No problem, sweetheart,” He says, still breathing heavy, his eyes a little darker now. “You know I love to return a favour.”

#finishing smth is actually a miracle rn #considering how slammed i am + my stupid baka life #SO I HOPE U LOVE IT #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve x you smut #steve x you #steve harrington x reader smut #smut #be safe kids don’t actually be doing this #i love torturing men but not crashing cars #aLSO thanks for the birthday wishes!!!!

534 notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 17 days ago

Note

John Constantine doesn't usually like to get involve with beings from the Infinite Realms. They are too chaotic to predict most of the time, makes it harder to trick them. But there is one contact Constantine has and that is Ember. Constantine knew Ember as a human, when he was in his punk rock band Mucous Membrane. They had some good memories together before both their lives went to shit. The only thing Ember asks in return for her help is that Constantine has to play a set with her. No one in the JL or JLD know about this until Constantine has to pull out his Ember card.

"I know someone who can help." John's voice rises over the chatter of multiple conversations, effectively silencing everyone. As one, the group of volunteer defenders- not heroes, John refuses to label this lot as heroic when most of them agree with the crazy shit the governments around the world get away with- turn to stare at him.

He smiles lazily, uncaring of the hundred pairs of eyes that run over his body. A few of the costume-wearing vigilantes grimace when they catch sight of who's spoken, but John recognizes that some of the lingering looks are appreciative, so he peens just a little.

He's a handsome one, he knows, but it's nice to be reminded.

"You know someone who can help?" Zatanna repeat though her words are edged with doubt. It would have been hurtful, but they were in the middle of an "off" of their on-and-off relationship, so it's no surprise. "Someone who could help stop a black hole from sucking in the earth?"

"It's not really a black hole, is it?" He counters, waving his hand at the screen, which is still flashing red and displays the word 'Emergency' across it. The three speesters —Barry, Wally, and Bart —were running around it, attempting to slow down the formation with their own vacuum, but they wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. "More of a portal made of dark matter that some loony scientist ripped open because his wife left him, isn't it?"

"No." Hal breathes heavily, looking utterly horrified from behind his mask. "That's not how dark matter works-"

"Yeah, so we need someone dead enough they can go in and stabilize it, but alive enough that they can use Batman's machine, yeah?" John cuts off the pilot. He's not in the mood to listen to a sky bus driver re-explain everything that Batman just said (though to be honest, John did tone him out). "I know a ghost who can help."

"A ghost," Bruce repeats, his voice steady. That's what he always liked about the detective. No matter what came out of John's mouth, the man always took it in stride and somehow managed to look in control and steady.

That made him so fit that John often fantasizes about breaking Bruce's careful control. He sends the man a flirty little grin, but Bruce doesn't so much as blink. "I thought ghosts weren't able to interact with the physical world."

"They're not usually able to." Zatanna scowls, looking upset. She crosses her arms, sending John a narrow eye and an accusatory glare. He thinks it's unwarranted since she was the one who asked for their relationship to end. He's allowed to flirt with Bruce, come on, it's Batman. "Not unless that ghost has a contact with a living or found some place so drenched in ectoplasm it may as well be on the other side."

"What kind of contract?" Clark questions. John wiggles his eyebrows back at the Kypotian suggestively and has to bite back a grin at the blush that rises on the man's cheeks.

What an innocent little farm boy.

"The sexy kind," John declares smugly, just to make Clark flush darker. It's hilarious when he succeeds. " I'm joking! Ha, no, it's more like a favor between two friends. Ember and I go way back. I knew her in life-"

"That's dangerous!" Zatanna snaps seemingly at her wits' end. "You shouldn't be messing with spirits you knew in life. They tend to get corrupted!"

"Meh, Ember has always been corrupted," John shrugs, not caring that his ex's eyes go wide with horror. "We grew up together. We were even the original members of our own band before her Pa got a new job in America, and he moved the whole family across the pond. She got bullied bad by the stupid rich kids over here until a fire took her life. Her soul came back home to jolly old England, not even an hour after her death. I found her drumming on her guitar in our old hideaway, glowing and flouting. It's actually how I found out I had magic. Anyway, Ember made a pact to always be my friend before she flew into the sunset- and I mean that literally, a natural portal opened up into the Realms. She sent postcards."

"She can help?" Bruce cuts in, obviously trying to get John back on track. At the magic user's nod, the man seems to settle, uncoiling his muscles. It's gratifying that someone on Batman's level trusts John's expertise so much. Say what you will, but Bruce never doubts his comrades' abilities. "Good. Call her."

John grins, pressing his hand against his mouth and blowing out a kiss. "Ladies, Gents and Gits, are you ready to rock!?"

A woman's voice screams back, "Yeah!" causing a few people to jump

"I can't hear you!"

"Yeah!"

"I'm Johnny Con-Job on mic and this fine piece of arse is Ember! Listen to those strings~!" John screams, mimicking a mic while a fast past air guitar riff rips through the air. The noise is coming from everywhere and nowhere, leaving the many volunteer defenders to twist and turn, trying to pinpoint its origin.

Ember burst into the scene, her flaming hair whipping around her whole body as her means of travel before shrinking back onto her head. She's playing fast, angry, and grinning like a devil.

Someone in the crowd lets out a loud scream of joy, "Oh my god, it's Ember McLain!"

John's lips twitch with amusement but he's too busy singing the familiar words that they once wrote together while hiding out from his shitty father and her shitty mother. Both were just a couple of troubled teens no one thought would amount to anything, so they had to believe in themselves and each other back then.

He remembers thinking he would one day marry this girl. Life wasn't fair to those troubled like them.

Once their song ends, Ember lets out a whoop, flouncing down to John's level and punching him in the arm. He grins at her, trying not to notice how she looks exactly the same as she did sixteen years ago when the fire took her and he aged on without her.

"You git! How's it going?!" She laughs, punching him again. Ember's hair is a healthy flame, reaching to the middle of her back, which suggests she has likely enchanted a few humans lately. He's glad. She needs all the stabilization she can get. Her eyes roam his face before snorting "You're old as shit now."

"I'm thirty-two," He scoffs mockingly offended

"Wow, twice my age...." His words trail off as a familiar loneness sinks into her expression, and he wants to kick himself. Right, they were the same age once upon a time. Her face clears up long enough for her to smirk, "I bet your knees hurt from watching other people jump."

John gasps for real this time, but he doesn't have a chance to rebut because Bruce steps up, explaining what was happening to the superstar.

Ember gives him her full attention, nodding along to the plan. She's going to help because she knows the request is coming from John when he summoned her.

"You know Ember McLain!?" Someone hisses into his ear. He turns to the person fully prepared to gloat that, yeah, he knows the rock/pop star that was sweeping the nation, only to gape at the sight of Diana-Wonder Woman for Pete's sake- a starstruck gaze.

For a moment, his tongue doesn't work as Diana grips his upper arm. "My sisters and I used to listen to her music on repeat back home. Do you suppose you can get me an autograph for them?"

John doesn't know how to say no to Wonder Woman, so he finds himself asking his childhood friend, who is preparing to go into a portal made of science, if she can sign five hundred or so cards for free. She squints at him but shrugs. "Only if you can beat up Phantom for me."

"I told you, I'm not going to fight a child, Em."

"Even though he deserves it?!"

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Bandmates #John and Ember were childhood freinds #Her music is passed around the Ghost Zone #Themyscira is connected to it #The whole island loves her #Ember is famous but no one knew she was a ghost #John's pov #Bruce is just going to side step John's flirts #Yes John thirsts for everyone #morally grey John #NOT a ship between Ember/John anymore. She stayed a child and he grew

778 notes · View notes

2handsslan · 10 days ago

Text

max verstappen // mv1 fic recs

———————————— 🏎️🏎️ ————————————

one shots

honey you’re familiar - @orangeblossomsintheair

“for a second, he thinks about turning around. walking out. pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? it’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. want to get a drink?””

am i enough? - @katiascraft

“max feels insecure about his body :( (so you comfort him)”

honey, you’re familiar - @piastriprincess

“in which max finally comes home and you remember exactly what you were missing”

breathe, love - @itsnesss

“max has a panic attack after a tough race, and you help him calm down with gentle support, soothing words, and lots of love”

steal your heart, tonight - @lvrclerc

“after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him”

the pretty interviewer - @charlotteking23

“you are max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you”

the good luck charm - @randominchident

“you kiss max's forehead one race morning "for luck". he wins. it becomes a thing”

from friends to this - @randominchident

“you've been friends with max for as long as you can remember, it takes a redbull engineer asking you out for both of you to realise you want more”

blissful ignorance - @scudevils

“max was never short of confidence, he had trust in his ability in the car, he knew he could win, and he did win, the only thing he was never truly confident in getting was you”

your safe space - @charlotteking23

“you and max are polar opposites. you're shy, and he's... well...not. you listen, and he's maxplaining. but despite all the differences, you are perfect for each other”

series

but daddy i love him - @harrysfolklore

“in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love”

look me in the eye - @oikarma

“the rb21 seems unfixable but that might not be the only reason max verstappen wants you around”

you belong with me - @verstappenverse

“max never believed in soulmates until he met you. the only problem? you’re already dating lando. somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and max became best friends. he tells himself it’s enough. that the friendship is worth the ache. but as your connection deepens, max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too”

smau

texts from home - @checkeredflagggs

“max keeps getting texts from his girlfriend — reminders to look after their ‘kids’”

hit it like rom pom pom - @5sospenguinqueen

“fans find it hard to believe that max verstappen managed to pull a dcc. your brother, logan, is just disgusted that it’s suddenly all over his timeline”

i’ll let you break my heart again - @linaslivery

“max and y/n were the best couple on the paddock. until, things came crashing down after max says “i want to focus on my career” only to find himself with a new girl. and it hurts so much”

little miss red bull addicted - @mclager

like a good neighbor - @scuderia-piastri

“late night study sessions and late night sim races, what could go wrong?”

winners get kisses - @stzrgirl4norris

“as you begin to attend the races more frequently than usual, fans start to wonder the reason behind your appearances and it doesn't take long before speculations surrounding a relationship with one of the drivers. and max? he's jealous and tired of seeing people get it wrong”

angel - @landoughnut

“max is usually the calm and collected one, but his girlfriend gets the gen z out of him”

*these are part of my fic rec masterlist, please note none of these are written by me and the author of each story had been tagged! check out my f1 fic rec masterlist for other drivers!*

#max verstappen fic rec #max verstappen fic #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen smau #max verstappen series #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x y/n #f1 fic rec #f1 fic recommendations #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #b’s fic recs #max verstappen fic rec list

438 notes · View notes

dykebehaviour · 22 days ago

Text

TRUST FUND

H E A R T B R E A K

ellie williams x fem!reader

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

summary: after two years apart, you’re sent to an elite boarding school to escape your party-fueled lifestyle, only to discover your dorm roommate is ellie williams, your childhood best friend and first love. once inseparable, you two are now strangers carrying the weight of past heartbreak, family expectations, and simmering tension.

content: enemies to lovers, boarding school au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, oral r!receiving, fingering e!receiving, rich/posh lifestyle, emotional flashbacks, daddy issues, bratty/spoilt!reader, mean/stoic!ellie, hurt/comfort.

wk: 12.9k

a/n: okay this is a long one but oh how i loveeeee it. i hope you do too :)

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

the car that pulls up to saint anselm’s academy is sleek, black, and absurdly out of place among the autumn-stained gravel and wrought-iron gates. you sit inside like a trophy behind tinted glass, prada boots crossed at the ankle, one perfectly manicured hand twirling your cartier bracelet. the driver - your father’s assistant, because of course he didn’t come himself - pops the trunk and unloads your matching luggage with sterile efficiency.

“boarding school,” you murmur, glossed lips twisting. “grounded for having too much fucking fun.”

it should have been rehab. it almost was. but daddy couldn’t risk a photo of his daughter checking in at promises malibu, so instead you’re being hidden away, cleaned up, rebranded, like a messy investment portfolio.

you don’t even look up when the headmistress greets you.

you do, however, look up when the keycard slips into your palm and the words room 3c –ellie williams are spoken.

your stomach drops, glossy and full of sick nostalgia.

“wait,” you say, voice faltering for the first time in days. “she’s my roommate?”

the headmistress smiles like she’s got no idea what she’s just done.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the room is luxurious. exposed brick walls, dark wood furniture, shelves lined with expensive books you know ellie has never read. one side is meticulously neat: black sketchpads stacked, boots lined up like soldiers, a jacket, that jacket, hung on a copper hook. the other side is empty, waiting for you to clutter it with designer chaos.

you haven’t seen ellie in two years.

not since you ghosted her that summer, the summer she told you she loved you and you said nothing back. the summer your father sat you down and told you to grow up, clean up, fix up. the summer you broke her heart and locked your own away in a velvet box with a gold clasp.

you recognise her before she says anything. she’s standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of that same worn bomber jacket, hair a little longer, jaw a little sharper.

“you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

your heart jumps.

“hi, els,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds. like it remembers her before you do.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK - age 12

ellie’s strung up fairy lights. they’re glowing soft above your heads as you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed in your fists, eyes blotchy and red.

“i told my mom,” you whisper. “that i like girls.”

ellie doesn’t say anything. just nudges closer, blanket pulled up to her chin. there’s the faint smell of coconut from her shampoo. you bury your face in her pillow.

“she told me not to tell my dad,” you say. “said he’d ruin it. ruin me.”

ellie’s fingers brush your wrist. “he won’t.”

“you don’t know him.”

silence again, then: “i think i like girls too.”

your heart flutters. you look over at her. “really?”

she nods. “maybe just one.”

you don’t say anything, but you fall asleep smiling.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the present, she doesn’t offer you help with your luggage. just moves around you like smoke.

“i’m not switching rooms,” she says flatly, dropping onto her bed.

you snort, tossing your cashmere coat onto your unmade side. “please. you think i want to be here? sharing a room with you? what is this, poetic punishment?”

she looks up at that, eyes narrowing like a blade’s edge. “you think everything’s about you.”

“it usually is,” you snap, then instantly regret it.

ellie turns away, jaw clenched. you see the flicker of something there; hurt, maybe. recognition.

you hate that she still gets to you.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you meet the others the next day. ellie’s circle. a misfit trio of intimidating cool.

cat - razor-sharp, composed, somehow elegant even in a hoodie.

sarah - cat-eyed, sarcastic, always holding a lollipop and probably a secret.

and dina - kind, warm, always rambling on about her boyfriend jesse, who you gather is in one of the other exclusive private schools.

they don’t warm to you right away.

“didn’t peg ellie for a girl who’d room with gossip girl,” cat says.

“i’m not,” ellie mutters.

but then you start showing up to things. dinner. lit class. a party in the old astronomy tower with strobe lights and expensive vodka smuggled in through a trust fund’s worth of connections.

dina softens first. then sarah. cat just watches you, like she’s trying to find the seams.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 14

ellie’s mom dies.

you find out via text. you’re in monaco with your family, your father signing some oil deal, your mother shopping herself into oblivion.

you buy a flight back on your own credit card.

ellie's front porch is dark when you arrive at her house.

ellie opens the door to her childhood bedroom with dead eyes. her hair’s a mess. her hoodie’s swallowed her whole.

you crawl into bed beside her and wrap your arms around her waist.

“i’m here,” you say. “i’m not going anywhere.”

and for a while, you aren’t.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

two weeks into your exile, you go to a party that could’ve been a gala. champagne towers. violins and bass drops. everyone in designer, everyone pretending to be broken.

you’re drunk before ellie shows up, dragging dina behind her. her eyes scan the room like she’s already tired of it.

you’re on the balcony with a girl from eton who’s feeding you lines like they’re caviar.

when ellie walks past, you shout, “hey, roomie.”

she stops.

she smirks. “that your girlfriend?”

“ex–best friend,” you say, too loud. “first heartbreak.”

ellie’s eyes flash with something murderous. she walks away without a word.

you chase her down three songs later.

“what’s your problem?” you demand.

“my problem is you acting like none of it meant anything,” she snaps.

you’re nose to nose in the back stairwell. she smells like smoke and frustration.

“you think i wanted to leave?” you say. “you think i liked pretending we didn’t happen?”

“you ghosted me,” ellie says. “like i didn’t even exist.”

and then, without thinking, you grab her by the jacket and kiss her.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

it’s summer. a beach house your families share. you’re sunburned and exhausted, tangled in ellie’s sheets after a day in the waves.

the kiss starts slow. nervous. ellie’s hand shaking on your hip.

“you sure?” she whispers.

you nod. “you?”

she doesn’t answer with words.

it’s soft. scared. honest.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the stairwell, the kiss is the opposite. All teeth and tongue and years of swallowed rage.

you’re breathless by the time you shove open the dorm room door, ellie’s fingers gripping your wrist like she can’t let go now, not after everything. your back hits the wall before the door even clicks shut behind you.

it’s not sweet. not yet.

it’s desperate.

ellie crashes into you, mouths slanting together in a kiss that tastes like vodka, spit, and anger. her hands dig into your waist; yours claw at the collar of her shirt like you’re trying to rip two years of distance off her skin.

you drag her down by the front of her sweater, panting, whispering, “take it off.”

she pulls away just enough to yank it over her head, tossing it to the floor. her tank top underneath clings to her like a second skin, the lines of her arms sharp in the low light. you’re already unbuttoning your blouse, your fingers shaking as she watches you with blown pupils and a clenched jaw.

when you get it off, ellie steps in, hands skimming your ribs, thumbs slipping under your lacy black bra.

“you always wore this to parties?” she mutters, voice low, rough. “knew what you were doing?”

your lips curl into a smirk. “wanted to drive you crazy.”

she answers by kissing you again, deeper, teeth dragging your bottom lip as her hands move down - unzipping your skirt, pushing it past your hips.

it slips to the floor, and you’re standing there in nothing but your bra and a soaked pair of panties.

“god,” ellie whispers. “still such a fucking brat.”

you shove her lightly toward the bed. “then put me in my place.”

that flips a switch in her.

she backs you into the mattress, hands on your waist, and throws you down. the moment your back hits the sheets, she’s on top of you, mouthing at your jaw, your neck, biting down just enough to leave something behind.

you gasp when her hand slips between your thighs, rubbing over your panties. you’re soaked, and she groans when she feels it.

“you’ve been wet since the stairwell,” she mutters, voice gravel-thick.

“you’re so fucking cocky now,” you pant, arching into her touch.

“learned it from you.”

her fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down, slow, teasing. her eyes stay locked on yours while she peels them off and tosses them aside.

then she’s between your thighs, pushing them open with her hands, kissing the inside of your knee, the curve of your thigh, your hipbone.

“you still smell the same,” she murmurs. “missed this. missed you.”

you barely manage to whisper her name before her mouth is on you.

your head falls back, a moan ripping from your throat. she licks a slow, wet stripe up your center, then flicks her tongue against your clit in small, focused circles. you grip the sheets in one hand and her hair in the other, hips jerking at the sudden intensity.

“ellie-fuck-“

she groans into you like she’s starving for it, arms wrapped under your thighs to pin you down.

she sucks your clit into her mouth, and you see white.

“i-i’m gonna-”

“do it,” she breathes. “come for me.”

you fall apart, legs shaking, moaning her name like a prayer.

she keeps licking through it, slower now, gentler, until your hips twitch and you gasp from the overstimulation.

she pulls back, mouth glistening, lips red and slick. her eyes are so dark now they’re nearly black.

“you always come that fast?” she asks smugly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

you pull her down by her shirt and kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her lips. “only for you.”

you grab the hem of her tank top and yank it up - she lifts her arms, letting you strip it off, then her sports bra.

you trail your fingers over her chest, biting your lip. “still think i’m a brat?”

ellie smirks. “you’re about to be a wreck.”

you flip her over, straddling her hips, letting your still-sensitive pussy grind down against the toned skin of her thigh. she exhales harshly, hands on your hips.

you reach down between you both, sliding your hand over her stomach, into her boxers.

she’s wet. soaked.

“jesus,” you whisper. “you were dying for it.”

“you have no idea,” she groans, eyes fluttering shut as you slide two fingers inside her.

she arches up into you, legs spreading wider, hips rocking. her moans are guttural, breathy; desperate in a way that feels almost sacred.

you kiss her collarbone, her throat, her mouth, while you fuck her slow and deep, curling your fingers the way you remember drives her crazy.

her head tips back. “fuck-keep going, i’m close-“

“look at me,” you whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth.

she opens her eyes just as she comes, her whole body seizing under you, mouth falling open in a broken gasp. you slow your fingers, easing her through it, pressing kisses to her jaw and cheek.

she’s still trembling when you pull your hand out and collapse beside her, both of you slick with sweat and flushed to the collarbones.

she turns her head, looking at you like she’s still trying to catch her breath.

you smile, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead. “hi.”

ellie lets out a breathless laugh. “hey.”

you lie there, still half tangled in each other, her leg between yours, your hand resting on her stomach. the only sound is your breathing and the faint hum of rain hitting the window.

you fall asleep in her arms, skin warm, heart steady for the first time in years.

you wake up alone.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you don’t talk for two days.

then you break first.

find her sketching under the library archways and throw your phone at her.

“block me again and i’ll key your audi.”

she looks up slowly. her sketchbook’s open; pages of you, sleeping. lips parted. hair spilled over her pillow.

“i didn’t block you,” she says.

“right.”

“i panicked.”

“so did i.”

she looks at you, eyes softer now. “why’d you really leave?”

you swallow. “because i didn’t want you to be the reason my father stopped loving me.”

silence. then ellie stands.

“i would’ve loved you either way.”

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

things change after that.

not all at once. but slowly, like a fever breaking.

you move through school with a new rhythm. ellie starts letting you in again - hands brushing yours in hallways, whispered jokes over dinner. her friends become your friends. sarah teaches you how to braid your own hair. dina makes you playlists. cat tells you secrets in exchange for yours.

you’re not just rich anymore.

you’re loved.

and this time, you won’t run from it.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, still in your swimsuit under a towel, legs curled up. ellie’s pacing; slow, like she’s walking a tightrope.

“i need to say something,” she says, voice cracking a little.

you glance at her, confused. “okay…”

ellie stops, looks right at you, and for a second, she’s the girl you’ve known since you were eight. the one who made you mix cds in middle school, who held your hair when you threw up after sneaking your dad’s scotch, who kissed you for the first time in your bedroom under fairy lights when you were fourteen like she was terrified and certain all at once.

“i love you,” she says.

the words fall like a thunderclap. like someone pulled the sun out of the sky.

you blink.

“what?”

ellie’s already regretting it. “i know. i know it’s early - whatever. but i do. i’ve loved you since we were like fucking kids…probably. i mean, i didn’t know, then. but i do now.”

you don’t answer right away. you feel the blood drain from your face. something in your chest pulls tight - panic? fear? shame?

you stand abruptly, wrapping your towel tighter. “ellie…”

she stiffens. “don’t do that. don’t say my name like that.”

you take a breath. “you can’t just say that.”

“why not?” ellie’s voice rises, brittle. “we slept together. i know what that meant.”

“i don’t know what it meant.”

ellie flinches. “are you serious?”

you start pacing now, agitated, defensive. “we just-god, it was a moment, ellie. you’re making it into-“

“you cried,” ellie snaps. “you held my fucking face and told me no one ever made you feel safe before.”

you shut your eyes. “that doesn’t mean i’m ready to be in love with you.”

ellie crosses her arms tightly. “or maybe it means you’re scared of what people will think.”

you go quiet.

ellie’s voice hardens. “that’s it, isn’t it? you can fuck me behind closed doors, but god forbid anyone knows.”

you feel yourself flush, not with guilt - but rage. “do you have any idea the kind of pressure i’m under? my dad’s already suspicious. my friends-“

“your dad’s a fucking asshole,” ellie says coldly. “he’s spent your whole life trying to make you ashamed of who you are.”

“yeah, well, i can’t afford to burn everything down the way you do, ellie!”

the room goes dead silent.

ellie stares at you. her jaw clenches. “so that’s what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“no. you did.” she laughs bitterly, hurt blooming across her face. “it’s fine. i’m used to it.”

“ellie-“

she grabs her keys from the dresser. “it’s always me, huh? i’m the one who’s too much, too intense. i’m the one who loves harder.”

you want to stop her. you don’t.

she’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “you’re gonna miss me when i’m gone.”

you stare at her. frozen. scared. seething.

you say nothing.

ellie waits. one last chance.

you stay silent.

she leaves.

and two days later, when she texts you, you ignore it.

and the next week.

and the week after that.

eventually, she stops trying.

and you both go quiet for two years.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

one night, you sit in ellie’s bed together, legs tangled, her sketchbook resting on your knees.

“you ever gonna forgive me?” you ask.

she leans in, presses her mouth to your collarbone. “already did.”

you smile, fingers curling in her shirt. “good.”

because this time, you’re not going anywhere.

and neither is she.

495 notes · View notes

jeonstellate · 2 months ago

Text

the ghost of monza

there’s a phantom walking around the monza circuit — and oscar seems to be the only one who can see her.

ᯓ★ oscar piastri x fem!räikkönen!reader

ᯓ★ mentions of ghosts & ghostly behaviors

ᯓ★ paragraph format — 3K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

ᯓ★ all italian, spanish, & finnish words in this are from google! yn is kimi räikkönen’s daughter, but there are no physical descriptions mentioned.

ᯓ★ been into f1 recently && figured i should try writing something about it to help with my writer’s block. lowkey this might be my first & only f1 fic, but who knows. i appreciate any feedback as long as y’all word it nicely <3

It started on Oscar’s year as Alpine’s reserve driver.

It was a race weekend in Monza, Italy. The weather was great — the sun shone softly behind the clouds, the occasional wind blew like a hug, and there was a low threat of precipitation. It was really the ideal conditions for a Grand Prix for everyone involved.

There was no need for Oscar to fill in for any of the drivers and, thus, he was as relax as he could be.

He was just chilling inside the team’s motorhome, enjoying the relative silence of the hustle and bustle from the sidelines, when the glass door to his right opened from an effortless push of the figure outside. No one bothered to look — nor seemed to have noticed the door open — except for him.

To be fair, he wouldn’t’ve cared, either, had the figure not stood out like a sore thumb being the only red amidst the sea of blue. And if they didn’t look slightly passive — visibly judging, if he squinted hard enough — after sweeping the entire room with just their eyes. It was as if they found the entire Alpine motorhome lacking — or, worse, not worth their time.

Against his better judgment, and with every bit of an unknown force compelling him so, Oscar approached them. "Do you need help?"

He only had time to register the red cap on their head and the RKN boldly printed on the front of their equally red shirt before the person replied with a question of their own. "Is Alonso here?"

Oscar didn’t expect that inquiry at all. Purely based on the amount of red that covered their body, he assumed they were a tifoso who just lost their way to the Ferrari area. Yet, as it turned out, they came in there on purpose.

He weighed the ethicality of divulging a driver’s whereabouts. "He went back out. I’m not sure when he’ll be back."

The stranger nodded once, looking content with the answer he gave despite the vagueness. "Okay. Thank you."

With that, they turned back to the door and out to where they came from. They didn’t even look back to spare him — nor the motorhome — another glance.

It took Oscar two beats of silence to remember what Fernando had announced before the latter completely disappeared from the Alpine area. "If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I’m with Seb!"

It took him another beat to run after the stranger. Unfortunately, that three-second delay was enough for them to be out of sight in all the directions he looked.

He went back inside wondering if he merely hallucinated the entire interaction.

It continued onto Oscar’s rookie year in Formula One.

It was another race weekend in Monza, Italy. It was a more guaranteed dry bout than last year, though, with the sun shining a little brighter and no chance of precipitation.

That time around, he was no longer as relaxed, for he was now one of the twenty drivers who would try to take pole to increase their chances of winning the Grand Prix. Add the fact that he still had something to prove with his seat in McLaren— there was really no time for him to completely relax at all.

He did have time to disassociate, though, and let his thoughts wander — albeit they couldn’t stray too far from the race, no matter how many times he tried.

He saw the door to his right open in his peripheral vision. He thought nothing of it, as a lot of people kept coming in and out of the McLaren motorhome for one reason or another.

Except the latest newcomer wasn’t clad in papaya and black — or any other neutral and ‘safe’ colors. They were red. And not just any red, either, but a distinct variation of Ferrari red. They had to be tifoso, for sure.

"Excuse me?" Before he knew it, the tifoso in question was in front of him. They weren’t invading his personal bubble, though, much to his silent gratitude. "Hi."

Oscar reciprocated their greeting after his brain registered that the stranger looked vaguely familiar. "Can I help you?"

"Has Alonso dropped by here today?"

It clicked then where he had seen them previously. They were the same person that inquired the same thing to him last year, back when he was still in Alpine. They were even wearing the same RKN shirt, albeit the red cap had been swapped for a black one.

"No," he shook his head. He considered asking why they were looking for Fernando, but the stranger closed the conversation before he could even make up his mind.

"I see," they say with a nod, reminiscent of their first encounter. As before, they were content with his short and direct answer. "Thank you."

And, like the year previous, they turned back out to the street without sparing him another glance.

Oscar trailed his eyes on their retreating figure, but he didn’t see them go toward any direction after the door closed. Instead, the glass wall merely remained a barrier between the inside of the motorhome and the empty, lifeless street.

It had to be a trick of light.

In hindsight, Oscar was partly to blame for his latest dilemma.

He didn’t have to bring up the vanishing tifoso to Fernando during the drivers’ parade. He didn’t have to assume it’d be a simple, open-and-shut conversation, either. And, yet—

In his defense, it seemed to be the perfect chance to.

He just didn’t anticipate Fernando to look at him like he asked his question in a language he didn’t understand. "No tifoso came to me."

He decided to drop the topic after that. He wasn’t sure if he should clarify or ask for a confirmation. And, quite frankly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do either — especially considering how the tifoso in question vanished the way they did.

Perhaps it was better that he never got to ask again. That way, he had nothing that resembled a confirmation of a recurring hallucination.

He was fortunate enough to be gifted in compartmentalizing, so his performance wasn’t affected. He might’ve not performed as well as he hoped, but they were blameless on that. That was all him and the car.

Unfortunately, with the race done, he really had nothing else to occupy his mind.

Which meant, in the stillness and silence of his hotel room, the compartment he stored his biggest what-if opened with a bang!

What if he was being haunted by a ghost of Monza circuit?

(That didn’t even make sense. Monza was Ferrari’s territory. And the last time he checked, he didn’t drive for the prancing horse. If anything, a ghost of Monza circuit should be haunting either Charles or Carlos — not him.)

It was a blessing — and a curse — that Formula One kept Oscar occupied enough to effectively keep the ghost of Monza circuit out of his mind.

Because, by Oscar’s second year in Formula One, he had forgotten about his recurring supernatural encounter.

. . . Until the season calendar circled back to Monza, Italy, that was.

"You look like hell, mate." Lando greeted him when they met at the McLaren garage for free practice. "You alright?"

"Yeah," the lie slipped out easily. Coming to work with barely any sleep was normal for him, so he learned long ago how to function with it. It was just rather unfortunate that he was yet to master not looking like he crawled out of hell whenever he didn’t get enough hours. "Just tired."

Although ‘just tired’ wasn’t technically a lie, it still was to an extent. After all, his sleeplessness wasn’t simply caused by jet-lag or anything mundane. Rather, by something he couldn’t exactly explain.

Screw his brain for remembering about the ghost of Monza circuit just when he was about to pass out.

"Oh, yeah," his teammate agreed. None than wiser about his current dilemma. "Immigration ran long last night."

Oscar could only hum in agreement. He wouldn’t be lying anymore if he didn’t respond verbally.

Unfortunately, a part of him didn’t want to leave it at that. "Say, do you believe in ghosts?"

"Why?" Lando’s response might’ve lacked a direct answer, but his body language told him everything he needed to know. "Is there a ghost in your hotel room—"

"No, nothing like that," he interrupted before his teammate thought the worse. It was bad enough that his mind was plagued by such things. He didn’t need Lando to be distracted by it, too, for the sake of their team. "Hattie just got me thinking about it."

There was immense relief when his teammate didn’t question the lie that escaped him so nonchalantly.

He just hoped his sister never gets a wind of him using her as an excuse — or else he’d never hear the end of it.

It would’ve been so easy to ask other drivers, any team members, or pit crew if they’ve seen someone with a RKN shirt around the circuit.

It would’ve been so nice to hear at least person affirm in some way, none the wiser about the magnitude of relief they just bestowed him.

It would’ve been so liberating to be free of the torment of not knowing for certain.

It would’ve been so many things.

But, alas, going around and asking would take a lot of energy. He might have the energy to race and do his job, but he had nothing to spare for satisfying his curiosity. He could do either-or, not both. And he definitely wouldn’t pick the latter if he actually had to choose.

Thus, Oscar settled for the unknown to plague his subconscious. Not in the forefront of his mind whenever occupied with pressing matters, but definitely still triggerable with a word or two.

It should’ve been obvious by now that him sitting idle inside his team’s motorhome was a common factor in all his — quite plausibly — ghostly encounters.

But, alas, the realization merely came when he was, one again, living through an unfaithful replay.

"He’s not here," Oscar replied to another variation of the one question the tifoso always asked.

And like they always did, they accepted his answer as it was. No follow-up questions asked. "Okay."

Only that time, he wasn’t about to just let them leave and disappear again. "I might know where he is right now, though," he quickly added before they express their gratitude and turn away. "I can take you to him?"

The unnamed tifoso thinned their lips as they considered his offer. He took that time to take note of two things: One, they donned a red cap with a ‘7’ embroidered on it and their usually red RKN shirt had been swapped for a white one. Two, the sunlight from the glass wall wasn’t shining through them but on them.

They were not a ghost.

It really had been a mere trick of light.

"I suppose that’s fine."

Oscar’s relief almost manifested into a small smile. He’d be able to sleep comfortably later! "Great. If you’d follow me—"

He opened the door and gestured for them to exit first. They obliged with a subtle nod of acknowledgement, and their — theirs and his — arms touched accidentally. He paid no mind to the electricity that flowed through his skin where they made contact, too focused on counting the brief moment as another proof that the stranger wasn’t anything supernatural.

He led them to the Aston Martin garage, the tifoso following him soundlessly from behind. He made few attempts to walk next to them instead, but they countered with a move of their own every time — which successfully kept them directly behind him. He got the message after the third failed attempt.

He felt like Orpheus on his way out of the Underworld.

"Do you mind if I ask for your name?" He inquired a little louder than his usual talking voice. He wasn’t one for raising his voice unless necessary — and that moment definitely required it. For he had to keep his head facing forward, so he could safely navigate the both of them across the chaos of the paddock.

Amongst the scattered noise all around, he was able to pick out a sound of a reply, "My name’s [first name]."

[First name].

It might’ve taken three years but, finally, he had a name.

Oscar quietly tested their name on his tongue — making sure he was pronouncing it right, before saying it out loud. "Nice to officially meet you, [first name]. I’m Oscar."

He could almost swear he heard them something else in reply, but it was drowned by the noise around them. All he could attest to was a reminiscent of a hum and something that almost sounded like a "Likewise."

In all the overthinking he had done, Oscar had somehow never anticipated how the truth would actually come to be.

Fernando, the first person he hinted about the phantom tifoso, did know [first name]. "Princesa! It’s so good to see you!" Personally, based on the tight hug he engulfed her after that enthusiastic greeting.

"You, too, Nando setä," [first name] greeted back, albeit with less excitement visible in her body language.

Oscar stood there rather awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. Was he supposed to go now?

"Wait—" The older man suddenly held [first name] at arms’ length. He looked at her up and down, seemingly taking in her outfit. "Are you the tifoso Oscar was talking about?"

"What?"

Fernando turned to him, as if he realized it was a question for him instead of hers. "Is [first name] the tifoso?"

"Yeah," he affirmed. He turned to her, puzzled, "Are you not a tifoso?"

"Only conditionally," she responded with a light shrug. "I don’t typically consider myself one."

"Your outfit says otherwise, princesa." the Aston Martin driver gestured toward the prancing horse on her cap. He nodded in agreement, as the other encapsulated precisely what he was thinking.

[First name] was unfazed. "I just see them as faija’s merch."

Oscar had no idea what ‘faija’ meant but, based on context clues, he’d assume it meant ‘dad.’ Also based on context clues, ‘setä’ probably meant ‘uncle.’ It could also be the other way around, really. Alas, he’d have to confirm later.

"Your papá doesn’t even race anymore—" Or not, since Fernando seemed to have given him the confirmation indirectly— "why do you still insist to wear his merch when you watch me race?"

"I just want to."

He felt an inclination to ask who her father is. Yet, at the same time, he also felt like it was already at the tip of his tongue.

[First name] and her Uncle Fernando watched Oscar leave to return to the McLaren motorhome.

When the Australian driver was nothing but a speck in the sea of paddock chaos, her uncle wasted no time to open the conversation he was most likely dying to have. He probably would’ve kicked Oscar out of the Aston Martin garage, too, if the latter didn’t excuse himself early enough. "Finally got the balls to exchange more than a sentence with him, huh?"

She didn’t move her attention from the direction Oscar disappeared to. "On the contrary, I just didn’t want to refuse his offer."

Her first encounter with Oscar in Alpine had been by chance. She really was looking for her Uncle Fernando then. Her Uncle Sebastian wasn’t in his team’s motorhome down the lane when she dropped by, so she strategically sought out her other uncle. She figured they were likely chitchatting in some corner, as they often did with her dad back when the latter was still in the grid. It was only a matter of narrowing down where they could possibly be.

She didn’t know what it was with the team member that assisted her in Alpine. He just stood out to her much more than the one in Aston Martin. Perhaps it was because he didn’t make her wait for nothing. Or because he was more direct in replying to her query. Maybe it was because he was obviously around her age.

Whatever the case might be, she wasted no time in asking her uncles about the cute boy in Alpine after she sprinted to the garages. It was obvious her uncles immediately caught on what was happening before she even realized it herself. After all, she was a Räikkönen and very much like her father. She wouldn’t use much of her energy if she could help it. At best, she would only willingly use her energy for things that she cared enough about.

The fact that she sprinted just to get a name . . .

(It only took them a wordless glance at each other to unanimously conclude that she got a crush. A firsthand experience in love at first sight, if they wanted to push it.)

"Ay, princesa." Her Uncle Fernando’s disappointment was already distinguishable in just two words. "You backed out again?"

She couldn’t blame him. She planned to be acquainted with Oscar last year but she lost courage at the last second, so she tried again when the calendar restarted. Unfortunately, the same thing occurred. "It’s hard."

"You’re only asking him to be your friend, not for his hand in marriage."

[First name] scoffed at his chosen phrasing of his words of encouragement. She knew he was right, of course, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her agreement. "Maybe I should’ve just listened to faija and stayed away from the paddock."

It was his turn to scoff. "Too late for that. Your papá already approves of Oscar."

Her head snapped toward him in a concerning speed. "What?"

Fernando met her wide eyes with his own sparkling in excitement, as if he had been waiting for that moment for years. "I’ve been sending updates to him and Seb."

#oscar piastri x reader #op81 x reader #f1 x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #op81 fanfic #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #op81 imagine #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fic #op81 fic #f1 fic #oscar piastri #op81 #mclaren formula 1 #mclaren formula one #f1 #formula 1 #formula one

720 notes · View notes