#riot of curls | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 4 days ago

Text

The Softest Place to Land

Charles Leclerc x endometriosis awareness influencer!Reader

Summary: in which you learn what it means for someone to love you not in spite of the pain, but through it

Warnings: chronic illness and debilitating pain

You’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to blink.

The heat is cloying, the air thick with perfume, champagne, and burnt rubber. Every breath tastes like exhaustion and anxiety. You haven't eaten since Dallas, haven't slept since Heathrow, and your body is starting to riot.

A camera flashes.

“Oh my god! You’re Y/N Y/L/N, right? The one with the book — what’s it called — Unpretty Pain? Can we get a selfie?”

You force a smile. “Sure.”

You barely register the phone being shoved in your face. The handler — Ashley? Amanda? Something with an A — is already yanking you gently toward the next stop, high heels clicking like a metronome of stress.

“This way, Y/N,” she chirps. “VIP area, Paddock Club. We’ve got you slotted in for a little media time before Charles arrives.”

Your stomach clenches, hard. Not the nerves kind. The pain kind.

You suck in a quiet breath through your teeth, wrap your arm tighter around your midsection, and pretend it’s just a posture thing. Posture, not survival.

Amanda-Ashley glances back. “Everything okay?”

You nod. Smile. “Yeah, just … jet lag. Sensory overload.”

She beams like that’s a cute aesthetic. “So real of you! The rawness is your brand, right?”

You want to scream. Instead, “Yeah.”

Another flash goes off. A man with a microphone asks something about motorsport and advocacy. You don't really catch it — your ears have started ringing. You're not sure if it’s the crowd, the heat, or your ovaries trying to kill you.

You answer something generic. Something charming. You have no idea what.

Pain is clawing up your back now, sharp and wrong, radiating down your thighs like a fire that won’t stop burning. The nausea blooms next. You swallow it down hard, feel bile rise anyway. Sweat beads at your brow.

You’re going to be sick. Or scream. Or cry. You’ve done all three before.

You scan for an exit, for a corner, for a goddamn breath of air.

And then you hear the name float above the din: “Charles is here!”

More camera shutters. Cheers. People move. You feel the shift like a wave, bodies rearranging themselves in perfect choreography for a man who hasn't even stepped into the circle yet.

Your handler’s already turned to greet him.

And that’s when it happens. The world tilts.

You sway forward like someone cut the strings holding you up. One high heel twists beneath you. Your knees buckle. The pain hits white-hot, like an electric shock in your pelvis.

You gasp — a real one this time, ugly and strangled and loud — and then someone catches you just before you hit the ground.

“What the hell?” A voice says, accented, low. “Careful, merde-”

You can’t see. You can’t think. You’re shaking now, trying to curl inward, trying to breathe through a body that feels like it’s turning on itself.

You know that voice though. Or rather, you know who it belongs to.

Charles Leclerc.

Of course.

He smells like cologne and sunlight, and he’s crouched beside you now, palm steady on your shoulder. Cameras flash faster. Someone’s filming. You want to disappear.

“Are you okay?” He asks, eyes scanning yours like he’s trying to diagnose something he’s never seen before.

You can’t answer. Your body’s not working.

Your breath’s coming in short, fast bursts. Your vision’s gone patchy. Your jaw is clenched so hard you think your teeth might crack.

“Can we get some help?” Charles calls over his shoulder, panic sliding into his voice now.

Amanda-Ashley is beside you too, kneeling awkwardly, whispering, “Y/N? What’s wrong? Is it — should we call an ambulance?”

You shake your head. Barely. You hate ambulances. They always treat you like you’re dramatic, drug-seeking, wasting resources. Like you don’t already live here, in this pain.

“No hospital,” you rasp. “It’s just … a flare.”

“A flare?” Charles repeats, brow furrowed. “Of what? Is it your heart or something?”

“It’s endometriosis,” Amanda-Ashley blurts. “She talks about it. It’s her thing.”

You could kiss her and strangle her in the same breath.

Charles doesn’t get it. You can see it all over his face — the confusion, the quick judgments forming in the silence between words.

“Oh.”

That’s all he says.

Just oh.

And something about that single syllable cuts deeper than the pain.

You try to push up on your elbows, try to salvage some dignity, but your body won’t move. The cramps are twisting deeper now, pressing against organs, nerves, your entire identity.

Charles catches your arm. “Hey, don’t. Maybe wait. You don’t look good.”

You laugh. It sounds like a sob. “I don’t feel good.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something — maybe a joke, maybe an apology — but you don’t hear it.

Because the lights go out. Everything goes black.

***

The fluorescent lights above you hum with the quiet cruelty of hospitals. It’s cold — too cold — and the paper sheet under your thighs crinkles every time you shift. Which isn’t often, because even now, with meds in your system and a flat cot beneath your back, the ache is everywhere. Bone-deep. Dull and sharp all at once, like someone knifed you from the inside out and left the blade in for good measure.

You blink slowly.

Your mouth is dry. Your brain feels scrambled. The room smells like antiseptic and expensive perfume, and somewhere outside the half-closed curtain, someone’s laughing too loudly.

"Hey," a soft voice says. Not Charles. Female. Too chipper. Amanda-Ashley.

You turn your head.

She’s holding your phone, your tiny crossbody bag tucked under one arm, talking fast into her AirPods and typing on her iPad with the other hand.

"Y/N’s up," she mutters to someone on the line, before smiling down at you. "Hi, sleeping beauty. You scared the crap out of everyone.”

You try to say something — apologize, maybe, or joke — but all that comes out is a weak croak.

She leans in, lowering her voice. “Don't talk yet, babe. They gave you something — IV fluids, pain relief, something to calm the spasming or whatever. You looked bad. Like, sweat-dripping, seizure-adjacent bad. Everyone thought it was a heart attack.”

You close your eyes again.

“I told them it was endo,” she adds, quieter now, glancing around like the diagnosis is something sacred. “Anyway, we pushed your influencer lunch to tomorrow. And the team’s fine, the PR girl from Aston Martin said you were a champ just for showing up.”

You grimace.

“Do you want me to text anyone?” She asks.

You shake your head, but she’s already looking at your phone screen. “Oof. Your DMs are blowing up. Someone posted a video of you collapsing, it’s got, like, eighty-thousand views already. And — oh. Charles Leclerc asked about you.”

You look up sharply.

“He’s outside,” she says, like she’s reporting weather. “But I told him you needed rest. Plus, I don’t really think he gets it, you know? He looked kind of … weird about it.”

Of course he did.

That’s how it always goes. The minute people see the messy part — the real part — they start doing math in their heads. Calculating how much of you is still valuable.

You nod faintly. Amanda-Ashley smiles, pats your shoulder like you’re a puppy, and heads for the curtain.

“I’ll give you some space,” she says. “But we’ve got to get you back to the hotel in an hour, so, like, if you could … not pass out again, that’d be awesome.”

The curtain swishes shut behind her.

You’re alone again. And you ache. Inside and out.

So, you do what you always do: you reach for your phone. It takes a second — your fingers are trembling — but you open the Notes app and type.

Today, my body said no. Loudly. Publicly. Painfully.

I said yes anyway. Like I always do.

This is what endometriosis looks like. It’s not always soft lighting and grainy filters and curated vulnerability. Sometimes it’s vomiting in a paddock toilet and waking up under hospital lights.

Sometimes it’s showing up, even when you probably shouldn’t. Because people like us always feel like we have to.

Be gentle with yourself, if you’re reading this.

And if today, your body says no — listen.

Please, please listen.

You attach a photo — not one of the glossy professional shots from earlier, but the raw one Amanda-Ashley took just before everything went south. You’re pale, eyes half-lidded, slumped in a chair with your head leaning on your hand. A rare candid.

You hit post and set the phone face-down.

You don’t need to see the storm coming.

***

Meanwhile, Charles is pacing.

His manager already left. His handler shrugged. Amanda-Ashley told him — twice now — that she’s resting and that the “incident” wasn’t his problem. But that doesn’t sit right with him. None of it does.

He scrolls again. He’s sitting on a hard bench just outside the medical center, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, jaw clenched. The internet is a fast place. And it’s flooded with clips.

He watches one again. A shaky iPhone video: you collapse. The gasp, the stumble, the way your face goes completely slack in his arms. He lowers you gently, eyes wide, confused, like someone tossed him a bomb and told him to disarm it with his hands tied. He winces watching it back.

And then — curious, ashamed, weirdly compelled — he types your name into Instagram.

There you are. Verified. 2.1 million followers.

Profile bio: Author. Endometriosis warrior. Chronic pain is political.

He clicks on your stories. You’ve posted since collapsing.

“What the-” he whispers.

He reads it all. Then reads it again. And something in his chest shifts.

He scrolls your feed. He sees you in hospital gowns, in sweatpants on heating pads, in selfies with dark circles and IV lines. He sees book excerpts, gut-wrenching captions, threads about pelvic floor therapy and misdiagnoses and medical gaslighting. There’s nothing glamorous about it and yet you’ve made it … powerful. Honest. Loud.

And shit, he misjudged you.

He sees it clearly now: the moment you crumpled, he assumed weakness. Drama. He assumed it was some influencer thing, some stunt, some sensitivity. He’d seen too many types like that.

But this? This is something else.

He taps to your latest post again. Reads that last line. Listen.

His thumb hovers over the message button. He doesn’t know what he wants to say yet, but he knows he needs to say something.

***

Back in the medical center, your phone vibrates. And keeps vibrating.

You groan and flip it over. The post has hit 120k likes in less than an hour. The comments are flooded: women tagging each other, people sharing their own stories, thanking you, crying with you.

And then there’s the message.

From him.

Charles Leclerc

Hey. I just saw your post. I’m really sorry about what happened. And I’m even more sorry for how I looked at you.

I didn’t understand. That’s on me.

I’d really like to talk sometime, if you’d be okay with that.

You stare at it. You read it again. You don’t answer.

Not yet.

Amanda-Ashley pokes her head in twenty minutes later. “Ready to roll, warrior queen?”

You manage a smile. Barely. “Yeah.”

You don’t mention the message. But your heart’s still pounding.

***

Charles doesn’t hear back.

Not that night, not the next morning. He’s never cared this much about being left on “seen,” but now, every hour that passes makes him more anxious.

He tells himself it's guilt.

But it’s not just guilt. Because the more he reads, the more he scrolls, the more he finds himself wanting to know you. Not just the girl who collapsed. But the writer. The voice. The person who turned agony into advocacy and didn’t flinch when it got ugly.

He’s not used to that. Most people edit their truth into something shinier. But you? You bled all over the page.

And suddenly, that day in the paddock doesn’t feel like a PR event anymore. It feels like a beginning.

***

You almost don’t answer the knock.

The pain’s still crawling low in your belly like something sharp and angry is nesting there, and your body feels like it’s been dragged through gravel. You’re wearing an oversized hoodie, pajama shorts, and the heating pad’s wrapped tight against your abdomen like a second skin.

You’re in no mood for conversation. Or company. Or sympathy.

Another knock. Softer this time.

You freeze halfway between the couch and the bathroom, heart stumbling. Amanda-Ashley’s already out at dinner, and you’re not expecting room service.

Then comes the voice. Low. Familiar. Nervous.

“Hey … it’s Charles.”

You stare at the door. Then at your reflection in the mirror by the entryway. You look like exactly what you are: a woman who passed out in front of half the F1 paddock and woke up in a puddle of her own sweat and shame.

You don’t move.

“I just …” His voice trails off, muffled through the door. “I brought something. If you’re up for … I don’t know. Talking?”

You consider pretending you’re asleep. Ignoring it. Letting this all blow over like some viral moment everyone will forget about in two news cycles.

But then he says it. The sentence you weren’t expecting.

“Not to say ‘get well soon.’ I know it’s not that simple. I just wanted to ask how you are. Today.”

Your hand’s on the doorknob before your brain agrees.

You crack the door. He’s standing there in a hoodie and jeans, sunglasses perched in his hair, holding a clumsy bouquet of wildflowers that look like he picked them from three different gas stations. A few are bent. One is definitely a weed.

It’s kind of perfect.

“I know it’s weird,” he says quickly. “Me being here. I just — wanted to say I’m sorry. Not just for what happened. But for not understanding it.”

You open the door a little wider.

He blinks. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. Every instinct screams no. You’re not camera-ready. You’re not cute. You’re cramping so hard your vision’s gone fuzzy twice this hour.

But he’s looking at you like he means it. Like he actually wants to know.

So you step aside. “Sure. But only because I don’t want to carry those flowers myself.”

He laughs, relieved, and follows you in.

You motion vaguely toward the balcony. “It’s a disaster in here. Sorry. And I’m not really … in host mode.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m not in driver mode.”

You don’t bother offering him a drink. He doesn’t ask.

You settle into the cushioned chair outside, legs curled under you, heating pad still plugged in and snaked around your waist. He sits in the one opposite, placing the flowers awkwardly on the little metal table between you.

For a minute, you just sit there. The hum of the city rises from below — honking cars, distant laughter, music from a rooftop bar somewhere.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

“I don’t think you had a choice.”

You give him a look. He winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. Not really. “I’m just … not used to people checking in after. Most either disappear or ask if I’m pregnant.”

He nods slowly, watching you. “I Googled endometriosis last night.”

You raise a brow. “Let me guess — terrifying and vague?”

“Very,” he says. “Also, half the articles were useless.”

“Welcome to my world.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I saw your post. And then a bunch more. You write about it like it’s a war.”

“It is,” you say. “But the enemy lives inside you. And no one believes you’re really in danger.”

He nods again. Quiet. Absorbing.

You don’t usually talk like this with strangers. Or men. Or drivers with chiseled cheekbones and Monaco apartments. But somehow, the conversation feels like it’s already in motion, like you’re just catching up to it.

“What was it like?” He asks, voice low. “The moment it hit.”

You exhale slowly.

“Like my pelvis caught fire. Like someone dropped a rock in my stomach and started twisting it. You get tunnel vision. Your skin goes cold. You want to crawl out of your body.”

He flinches, and you wonder if he’s picturing it — you, not just the concept.

“I’ve raced with migraines before,” he says. “With bruised ribs. Even food poisoning once. But that …”

He trails off.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s not the kind of pain you can compartmentalize. It’s primal. It takes over everything.”

Silence stretches between you. Not awkward, exactly, more like … heavy.

Then he says, “You must feel like you’re fighting your body all the time.”

You look at him, surprised. That’s the first time someone’s put it quite like that.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It’s exhausting. Some days I wake up already apologizing to myself.”

He leans back, thoughtful. “I get that. In a different way, maybe. But I get it.”

You tilt your head. “How?”

He shrugs. “I have to be perfect. Every second. On track, off track. Smile for the camera. Be gracious in defeat. Be hungry in victory. And if I crash or choke or finish P6 instead of P1, it’s like I failed the world.”

You study him. There’s a crack in the usual polished exterior now. A realness in his posture, his eyes.

“You ever wish you could just … not?”

“Every race weekend.”

You laugh softly, even though it hurts. “Guess we both live in bodies we can’t escape.”

He nods, and then, cautiously: “Do you ever feel … ashamed?”

The word stings.

You swallow. “More than I want to admit. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I teach people not to be.”

He nods again, staring out over the balcony rail. “Same.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you add, “But I also feel proud. Some days. Like when I post something honest, and someone messages me like, ‘Hey, that thing you said? That saved me today.’ Or when I just make it through a brutal morning without crying. Or when I show up, even if I collapse afterward.”

“I think that’s brave,” he says.

You glance at him. He means it. It’s not some sponsor-polished compliment. It’s raw. Earnest.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He offers a shy smile. “You’re different from what I thought.”

“Oh?”

“At first I thought you were just … one of those influencers.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“You know. Selfies. Sponsorships. Hashtags. Filters.”

You raise a brow. “I do post selfies.”

He smirks. “Yeah, but yours come with medical terminology.”

You grin despite yourself. “Fair.”

He sobers a little. “I didn’t realize how much strength it takes. To live like that. And then to talk about it, too.”

“It’s the talking that saves me,” you admit. “If I keep it all inside, it festers. Turns into shame. Talking makes it real. And survivable.”

He nods slowly. “I get that. When I lose a race, I have to talk about it. Press conferences, interviews. It sucks, but it helps. Makes the failure feel less … permanent.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “You’re better at this than I expected.”

He laughs. “At what?”

“Listening. Being … here.”

He shrugs, but he looks a little pleased. “I was raised right.”

You stretch your legs a bit, wincing as the cramps spike. He watches, concerned, but doesn’t ask if you’re okay again. You appreciate that.

“So what now?” You ask.

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve apologized. You’ve seen the raw, unfiltered mess. You’ve done your good deed.”

“I wasn’t trying to do a good deed.”

You cock a brow.

“I mean it,” he says. “I didn’t come to fix anything. I came because I wanted to know you better.”

You blink.

No one ever says that part out loud.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I know we’re not exactly … in the same world. But I’d really like to be friends. Or more, maybe. If you ever want to.”

You sit with that. Let it settle. It doesn’t feel rushed. It doesn’t feel performative. It feels honest.

“Let’s start with friends,” you say carefully. “And see if you survive a flare day without running for the hills.”

He grins. “Deal.”

You look out over the Austin skyline, the horizon glowing soft and orange. The pain hasn’t gone away. But it’s quieter now. Not because it’s better, because you feel seen.

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him.

And maybe you’re still not sure where this goes. But for now, you’re not alone.

***

You make them write it down. That’s the only way you agree to return to the paddock.

Amanda-Ashley looks half impressed, half stressed as you dictate your boundaries while wearing compression socks, a pain patch, and your “Not Faking, Just Fighting” hoodie. Her phone is already in her hand, thumbs flying as she relays the terms to PR.

“No more than two hours total,” you say, pulling your hair into a loose braid. “And I need at least one break in a quiet space with somewhere I can sit or lie down, not just some folding chair in a supply closet.”

“Got it,” Amanda-Ashley mutters. “Adding that.”

“I’m not doing another full sweep of the paddock, either. No media gauntlet. No photos unless I agree on the spot. And no surprise driver drop-ins.”

At that, Amanda-Ashley grins. “Except Charles?”

You glare. “Not a word about Charles.”

She makes a zipping motion across her lips. “Copy that, boss.”

You take a slow breath and stare at your reflection in the mirror above the desk. You look … decent. A little pale, a little puffy around the eyes, but presentable. You’ve done this before — pushed through for panels, talks, book launches. Today isn’t special. And yet it feels like walking back into the fire.

But this time, you’re bringing a fire extinguisher.

By the time you arrive at the paddock, there’s a chair waiting for you in the shade outside the hospitality suite. A real one, cushioned, with a branded blanket folded on the back. One of the Ferrari staff nods and gestures wordlessly toward a side entrance to the building — quieter, less chaotic.

Amanda-Ashley raises her brows at you. “You’re officially terrifying.”

“Good,” you mutter.

You hold your head high walking in. Smile when you need to. Laugh when someone compliments your latest post. Shake hands with sponsors and politely ignore the second glances you know are about that video. There’s a trace of pity in some people’s eyes, but mostly, there’s respect.

Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re still here.

Charles spots you through the glass before you see him. He’s leaning against a high table with a paper cup in hand, chatting with one of the mechanics, but the moment his gaze lands on you, his whole posture shifts.

He makes his way over slowly, giving you space to breathe, to notice him, to signal whether you’re up for it.

You are. You nod once, and he’s beside you in seconds.

“Hey,” he says, quiet but warm. “You look better today.”

“Relative term,” you reply, gesturing to your heat patch and the rescue meds in your crossbody bag. “I’m functioning. That’s my metric.”

“Then you’re doing great.”

You look around. “This place is a circus.”

“I know,” he says. “You want out for a bit?”

You glance at Amanda-Ashley. She gives you a subtle thumbs-up.

You nod to Charles. “Lead the way.”

***

He takes you not to a secret driver hideout or some sleek sponsor lounge, but a quiet corner inside Ferrari hospitality, tucked near a catering station with a few couches and, blessedly, a low hum of silence. Someone offers you a hot drink.

“I always go for the hot chocolate,” Charles says, handing you a cup. “It’s not very adult, but it’s perfect.”

You take a sip. It’s rich, not too sweet, just the right kind of warm. “Okay, this is elite.”

“Told you.”

You sink into the couch, shifting the heating pad a little under your hoodie. Charles sits beside you, not too close, his knee brushing yours only when he crosses his legs.

“I watched you earlier,” he says. “Not in a creepy way.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

He grins. “I meant when you were negotiating everything. The chair, the breaks, the schedule. You were very …”

“Bitchy?” You offer.

“Precise,” he says, sincere. “Clear. Like a surgeon.”

You shrug. “I’ve had to be. If I don’t speak up, my body pays the price.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Do you ever get tired of fighting for it?”

You meet his eyes. There’s a tiredness behind the green that only someone who's lived in pain can recognize.

“All the time,” you admit. “Today I almost didn’t come. I was scared I’d collapse again. Or that people would think I was doing it for attention. That I’d ruin something just by existing.”

“But you came anyway.”

You nod. “Because I don’t want to disappear. I’ve spent too much of my life letting pain make me small.”

He says nothing for a while. Then:

“I started your book.”

You blink. “You did?”

“Yeah. Last night. I couldn’t sleep. I read the first five chapters.”

“What did you think?”

He looks away, then back at you, almost sheepish. “I cried at chapter three.”

You pause, caught off guard.

“That one was hard,” you say quietly. “The one about the first time I passed out in a grocery store.”

He nods. “And the way the paramedic asked if you were dramatic by nature.”

You let out a dry laugh. “He actually said that.”

“Idiots,” Charles mutters.

You glance over at him. “Most people don’t get it. They think it’s all in your head if they can’t see it. Or that it’s not bad enough to matter.”

“I used to be one of those people,” he says softly.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

He takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “I used to think strength was about pushing through everything. No excuses. No softness. But you …” he trails off. “You’re teaching me something else.”

You let his words settle. Then, because it’s too much, you change the subject.

“You know they sell your face on water bottles, right?”

He groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“There’s a seven-year-old outside with a Charles Leclerc flag bigger than her body.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s in love with you.”

He gives you a bashful smile, and you don’t look away this time.

“You’re very charming,” you say.

He shrugs. “Only with the right people.”

The moment hangs there. Not romantic yet. Not dramatic. But charged with something new — respect, maybe. Mutual understanding. An unexpected calm.

“You okay to stay a little longer?” He asks gently.

You nod. “Yeah. With you, it’s easy.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he smiles. And you both keep sipping hot chocolate, like the whole world isn’t watching.

***

"Come watch qualifying from the garage,” Charles says. “I'll make sure it’s not too loud. You can borrow my mother’s headset. It’s pink.”

He says it with a grin, leaning against the side of the hospitality suite’s espresso machine, arms crossed like it’s a casual suggestion and not something that’s making your pulse skitter.

You glance up from your cup of lukewarm tea, pulse thumping behind your temples, the beginnings of a hormonal migraine tiptoeing in. “The garage? Like, the garage?”

He nods. “Yes. You’d be with the engineers, not the press. Not the cameras. No standing. There’s a corner where I sometimes sit before race briefings. You’d be okay there.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself.

“Too much?”

“I think so,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m not sure I can handle the noise, the lights, the pressure. I’d probably be a liability.”

Charles frowns. “You’re not a liability.”

You smile — small, polite, automatic. “Thanks. But I know my body.”

There’s a beat. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t do that thing people do — where they try to convince you you’re stronger than your symptoms.

He just nods once and says, “If you change your mind, let me know. You’ve got my number.”

You do. You haven’t used it. But it’s there in your phone, under Charles 🏎️, because you didn’t know how else to label him.

***

You last exactly twenty-five minutes after saying no.

Maybe it’s the way he said it. Gentle, not performative. Like he meant it and would’ve meant it whether you were anyone or no one.

Maybe it’s the way Amanda-Ashley looked at you when you hesitated at the hotel later. “You deserve good things too, you know.”

Or maybe it's the nagging, stupid part of you that hates missing out just because your body’s doing its internal arson routine again.

Whatever it is, you start prepping like it’s a survival mission. You pack your meds, three kinds of earplugs, sunglasses, a collapsible seat cushion, your heating pad battery pack, two protein bars, and an electrolyte stick.

You wear your softest bra and your loosest pants. You bring your pain scale chart, tucked deep in your phone case like a talisman.

By the time you get to the paddock, you’re exhausted … and qualifying hasn’t even started.

***

Charles meets you at the side entrance. His eyes light up when he sees you.

“You came.”

You offer a tight smile. “Still debating if it was a good idea.”

“You look like you’re carrying a first-aid kit and a parachute.”

“I am.”

He chuckles, but then he really looks at you — your face, your posture, the slight hunch to your shoulders — and the smile fades a little.

“You okay?”

“Ask me in twenty minutes.”

He doesn’t joke again. Just nods and offers you his hand. You don’t take it, but you follow him.

The garage is everything you feared.

Too many bodies. Too much motion. A dozen overlapping sounds that slice through your skull like glass — tools clanking, engines humming, the low roar of the crowd even through the barriers.

Even with earplugs in, it’s loud. Not just volume loud, sensation loud. Your body goes into defense mode almost instantly, muscles locking down, skin hypersensitive. The lights hit your face in stabbing pulses. The scent of burnt rubber and adrenaline coats the back of your throat.

You sit down. Try to breathe. Try to focus.

Charles checks in with a thumb-up. You force one back. But your body’s already revolting. You can feel the flare brewing deep and fast, like a storm gathering behind your ribs.

Fifteen minutes in, you’re already bent slightly forward. One hand on your abdomen, the other gripping the edge of the seat cushion.

You shouldn’t have come.

You stay for another ten minutes — long enough to see Charles leave for his first lap, long enough to hear his name crackle through the headsets and see the team erupt in movement. Then you quietly tell the nearest staff member that you need to leave.

***

You don’t message Charles.

You make it back to the hotel in a daze. Amanda-Ashley’s still at the track. You take off your shoes and press the heating pad to your belly before you even make it to the couch.

You cry a little. Not because it’s the worst pain you’ve felt — it’s not. But because you knew. You knew better. You said no. You overrode yourself because you wanted to be normal for once. And now you’re paying the price.

You don’t remember closing your eyes.

You don’t hear the knock at first. But then it’s there again. Gentle. Hesitant.

“Hey. It’s Charles.”

You groan. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Showing up.”

You don’t mean it cruelly. Just … helplessly.

There’s silence. Then, “Can I come in?”

You shuffle off the couch and limp to the door, pressing the heating pad to your abdomen with one hand.

You open it. He’s standing there in his red Ferrari tee and jeans, holding two paper bags. One smells like soup. The other smells like the hot chocolate from earlier.

“I didn’t know what you needed, so I brought options.”

You stare at him. “Is that real matzo ball soup?”

He blinks. “I think so? The lady at the deli said it was good for sick people.”

You step aside. “Come in.”

***

He doesn’t make a show of it. He just sets the soup down on the coffee table, kicks off his shoes, and sinks to the floor next to where you’ve flopped back onto the couch.

You’ve switched the heating pad setting to high and pulled your hoodie tight around your knees. The cramps are white-hot. Your skin’s gone clammy again.

Charles sits cross-legged, arms resting on his thighs, eyes steady on yours.

“I overdid it,” you say hoarsely.

“I know.”

“I hate that I always do this. I say no, then I say yes. I don’t listen to my own limits.”

“You wanted to be part of it.”

“I wanted to prove I could handle it.”

“You did handle it,” he says gently. “You knew when to leave.”

You snort. “Yeah. Right before I passed out again.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve had races where I knew I shouldn’t have been in the car,” he says. “Where my gut told me to stop. And I didn’t. And it cost me.”

You glance at him. “What did it cost?”

“Points. Confidence. Sometimes … my peace.”

You swallow hard. “I feel like I’m constantly gambling with myself.”

“I think you’re brave.”

You shake your head. “Bravery would be knowing when to rest and actually doing it.”

He tilts his head. “Maybe. But maybe bravery is coming back, even after it hurts.”

You rest your cheek against the cushion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I want to,” he says. “Because I like you.”

You blink.

“I like you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Even like this.”

You want to say something witty. You want to make a joke. But the pain crests again, and all that comes out is a breathless whimper.

He doesn’t freak out. He shifts closer — just enough that his knee brushes the side of the couch — and offers his hand.

You take it. Without thinking. Without guarding.

“Does the heating pad help?”

“A little,” you murmur.

“Do you want more tea? Or — wait, do you want me to stop talking?”

You smile faintly. “No. I like your voice. It distracts me.”

He grins. “Really? I always think I sound like a cartoon when I speak English.”

“You kind of do.”

“Rude.”

You chuckle, then wince.

“Okay, no laughing,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Got it.”

You close your eyes, still gripping his hand. The pressure helps. The warmth. The solidness of him on the floor beside you, like he’s anchoring you to something stable.

You don’t mean to drift. But somewhere between his voice and the heat, you feel yourself going soft around the edges.

“I started chapter six,” he says quietly. “The part where you describe your body like a haunted house.”

You hum. Barely awake now.

“It made me think about mine. How I’ve always seen it as a machine. Something to control.”

You shift a little, murmuring something unintelligible.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be at war with it,” he adds. “But I think you’re making me understand.”

Your breathing deepens.

He watches you for a moment longer. Watches your fingers go slack around his. He stays right where he is. On the floor. Next to you.

And when your breathing evens into sleep, he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, guarding your rest like it's something sacred.

***

Race day starts slow. You wake up to sunlight stretching across the hotel room like warm fingers, the echo of Charles’ voice still tangled in your dreams.

He’s gone. But the heating pad is tucked gently by your side, still warm. There’s a post-it on the nightstand in sharp, messy writing.

Sleep well, warrior. See you out there.

It makes your throat tighten.

You spend the morning pacing yourself. Stretching. Eating something soft. Checking and re-checking your emergency kit like it’s armor. You watch the driver parade from your room with the volume low, recognizing the exact moment Charles lifts his hand to wave — tight smile, eyes scanning the crowd. You don’t think he’s looking for anyone in particular.

But part of you hopes.

***

By the time the race starts, you’re in your “quiet corner” — an unused hospitality suite two floors above the chaos. Amanda-Ashley pulled strings and favors and maybe a threat or two to get it secured. It’s dim, blissfully silent, and equipped with a mini-fridge and blackout curtains. You sit cross-legged on a loveseat with your tablet, the live broadcast on mute. One of your legs is shaking. You don’t realize it until you force yourself still.

The race unfolds like an opera of chaos: tire strategies, near-collisions, the occasional bleeped-out radio message.

And Charles …Charles is on fire.

Not literally, thank god. But driving like something’s possessed him. You watch the live telemetry, the way he edges closer to the lead with every lap. The commentators are losing their minds. You bite your lip to keep from screaming out loud.

When he crosses the finish line in P2, you’re on your feet. Alone in the quiet room, holding your breath like the crowd noise is in your bones.

Second place. Podium.

You don’t know why you’re suddenly crying. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s the strange ache of watching someone who saw you at your absolute worst crush it in front of the world. Maybe it’s just because, for the first time all weekend, something went right.

***

You don’t expect to see him after. Podium celebrations. Press. Debriefs. Parties.

You’ve been on the periphery long enough to know how these things go. He’s probably drinking champagne with CEOs or dancing under glitter cannons with the team. Maybe he’s on a flight already. Maybe the magic has a curfew.

You’re halfway through a cup of chamomile tea, dressed in your comfiest leggings and the hoodie you swore you wouldn’t wear again, when the knock comes.

You freeze.

“Room service,” a voice says, muffled but amused.

You pad to the door, heart doing gymnastics.

When you open it, Charles is standing there in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair damp from the podium spray, holding an ice bucket with an open bottle of champagne shoved into it at a crooked angle.

He looks tired. Happy. Real.

“Hi,” he says.

You stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He lifts the bucket. “I promised you champagne.”

“I didn’t think you meant tonight.”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You step aside.

***

He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off the shirt like it’s nothing, and flops back on your couch in a black t-shirt that fits too well.

You stand there awkwardly until he pats the seat beside him.

“Come on. Live a little. It’s a podium.”

You settle in. He pours two uneven glasses into the paper cups from your hotel coffee bar and hands you one.

You clink them together.

“To … podiums?” You offer.

He grins. “To quiet corners.”

You take a sip. It tastes expensive and fizzy and slightly warm. But you’re not complaining.

He rests his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes for a beat. “That race was insane.”

“You looked like you were driving angry.”

“I was,” he says. “Not at anyone. Just … determined. Focused.”

“Because you wanted the points?”

“No,” he says. “Because you were watching.”

Your stomach flips.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a chronically ill woman in sweatpants,” you say.

He turns his head to look at you. “You make me want to be brave.”

You look away. “That’s not fair. I wasn’t brave. Not this weekend.”

“You came. You stayed. You let yourself be seen when it wasn’t easy.”

You don’t answer. Just sip.

After a while, you speak quietly. “The headlines hurt, you know.”

His brow furrows.

“After Friday,” you explain. “They didn’t say my name. Just ‘influencer collapses in paddock.’ Or ‘sick girl causes commotion.’ Like I’m some weak, tragic sideshow. Like the worst parts of me are the only ones that matter.”

“You’re not that,” he says, instantly.

“I know,” you say. “But for a second, it felt like the whole world agreed. That I’m just a body failing in public.”

Charles puts down his glass.

“I didn’t see you like that,” he says firmly. “Not for a second.”

You scoff.

“I didn’t,” he repeats. “You were in pain. And still trying to be polite. Still apologizing. Still pushing through, even when you shouldn’t have had to. That’s not weakness. That’s … human.”

You blink, eyes burning again.

“I wish I could tell you that I didn’t care what people thought,” you murmur. “But I do. I hate being the ‘chronic illness girl.’ I want to be taken seriously. As a writer. A person. A woman.”

“You are all those things,” he says.

You stare at your hands. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to be soft and strong. That people only make space for one or the other.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I think softness is strength.”

You smile faintly. “That’s very poetic of you.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m a secret poet.”

You glance at him. “Have you been drinking champagne all day?”

“Maybe.”

You both laugh — this time you manage it without wincing.

Then it goes quiet. The warm, safe kind of quiet.

He looks at you. “You were the only thing I wanted to see after the race.”

That does something to you. Something wild and warm and a little terrifying.

You bite your lip. “Is this a weird podium high talking? Are you going to forget all this by next weekend?”

He frowns. “You really think that?”

“I don’t know what to think. You’re … you. I’m …”

“You,” he says simply. “And I like you. Not the edited version.”

You glance at him. “Even when I’m curled up with a heating pad and breaking into a cold sweat?”

“Especially then,” he says. “Because you still made space for me, even when you had nothing left to give.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you refill your paper cup and toast him again.

“To softness,” you say.

He clinks it back. “To you.”

***

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute you’re talking about your least favorite press questions — his is “how do you stay so calm under pressure?” (answer: he doesn’t), yours is “have you tried yoga?” (answer: yes, and screw off).

The next, you’re warm. Wrapped in something that smells like champagne and soap and him.

You open your eyes to find him still beside you on the couch, legs stretched out, your head resting against his shoulder.

He’s already watching you.

“Hi,” he whispers.

Your voice is a rasp. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.”

You look down. Your heating pad’s still on. Your cup is empty. He must’ve shifted it for you.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod. Then, quietly, “Are you okay?”

He smiles. “I am now.”

***

It starts with FaceTime.

At first, it’s short calls. Ten minutes, fifteen. Time zones and travel schedules make everything unpredictable, but somehow, you find each other.

“Where are you now?” You ask, curled up on your couch, heating pad tucked under your hoodie.

Charles turns his phone around to show a hotel room with cold lighting and a fruit basket no one asked for. “Qatar. I think. I woke up at 2 p.m. and had machboos for breakfast.”

You laugh. “Very glamorous.”

He grins. “I miss your ugly tea mug.”

You lift it into frame. “Still alive. Barely.”

It turns into a ritual.

Late nights. Early mornings. You in bed with a hot pack and sleep mask perched on your forehead, him in a hoodie, slumped in a race simulator or half-wrapped in a hotel comforter.

Sometimes you talk about big things. Pain. Pressure. How your body betrays you. How his mind sometimes does the same.

Sometimes you talk about nothing at all.

“What’s your favorite snack?” He asks one night, half-asleep in Maranello.

You’re trying not to wince from a bad cramp. You mutter, “The peanut butter pretzels from Trader Joe’s. The ones in the tub.”

He hums. “Noted.”

***

Four days later, a box shows up at your door.

You’re in pajamas. Hair unbrushed. Bloating in full force. You only open the door because you’re expecting your new heating patches.

Instead: a full cardboard box of peanut butter pretzels. Not one tub. Four.

The note is scribbled in Charles’s handwriting:

For the worst days. Or the best ones. I don’t discriminate.

- C

You hold the note against your chest and laugh until your ribs ache.

***

The thing is, it’s getting harder.

Not the feelings — that part is easy. Too easy. When he texts, your chest lights up like something divine. When he FaceTimes, you remember what it’s like to feel wanted, not pitied.

What’s hard is the distance. And the doubt.

You’re the one with the unpredictable body, the limitations, the invisible schedules carved by pain. It’s easy to look polished on a screen. It’s harder when the flare hits at the grocery store. When you cancel plans three times in a row. When you fall asleep in the middle of a movie night because your medication finally kicks in.

Long-distance is one thing. But long-distance with you?

You start pulling back. Not on purpose. Just … slower replies. Delayed FaceTimes. You pretend to be busier than you are. You start rehearsing your excuses before you even need them.

You don’t want to ask him for more than he’s already giving. You don’t want to be the burden.

***

The spiral peaks on a Monday.

Your cramps are so bad, they make you nauseous. You cancel a podcast interview. Postpone your livestream. You spend most of the afternoon on the floor with your TENS unit and tears you don’t bother to wipe.

You don’t tell Charles. You don’t even open his last message.

You want to be someone else. Someone easier to love. Someone who can say yes without calculating pain scale numbers first.

At 7 p.m., you get a message that makes your heart stop.

Just landed. Should I grab dinner on the way or do you want to cook?

You blink.

Stare.

Re-read it.

What.

You call him instantly.

He picks up with a sleepy smile, luggage handle in one hand. “Hi.”

“Charles, what the hell?”

He blinks. “That’s a greeting.”

“You’re here?”

He nods. “Surprise.”

“Surprise? You just decided to cross the ocean?”

“Well, yes.”

You run a hand through your hair, panic bubbling fast. “You didn’t even ask. You just … flew here?”

“You were quiet,” he says, like that explains anything. “And I missed you. So I booked a flight. Is that okay?”

You don’t know how to answer.

Your stomach is in full revolt. You haven’t shaved your legs in a week. There’s an ice pack melting through your favorite sweatshirt. You are, without question, at your worst.

“Charles,” you whisper. “I’m not — tonight’s not a good night. I’m not well.”

“I can come tomorrow,” he offers gently. “Or not at all. You say the word.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The rational part of your brain says let him go. Don’t let him see you like this. It’s too much. You are too much.

But your heart — stupid, stubborn heart — says let him in.

“Okay,” you say softly. “But only if you promise not to say anything about the state of my apartment. Or my face.”

“I promise,” he says. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

***

He knocks exactly seventeen minutes later.

You open the door in your oversized hoodie and the fuzzy socks with holes in them. Your heating pad cord trails behind you like a tail.

Charles stands there in a hoodie, a paper bag of takeout in one hand and a wary look in his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

You stare at him.

He lowers the bag. “Still okay?”

You nod. Barely.

He takes off his shoes without being asked. Walks in like he belongs there. Places the bag on your counter and gives you a quiet once-over.

“I’m not going to say you look beautiful,” he says, “because I think you’d punch me.”

“I might.”

“But you do. Look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes … and burst into tears.

Like real, messy, overwhelmed sobs that take you by surprise.

“Hey, hey,” he says, already stepping forward. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

You shake your head. “I’m just … scared.”

He doesn’t touch you until you reach for him.

Then he holds you. Tight and real and unshakable. One hand on your back, the other cupping the base of your skull like you might break apart if he lets go.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he whispers.

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m too much. I know I am.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “You’re hurting. That’s different.”

You cling tighter. “But it’s all the time. And I don’t want you to feel like I’m a project. Or a problem to manage.”

“You’re not.”

You pull back. “Then what am I?”

He exhales, touches your cheek like you’re glass. “You’re the person I flew halfway across the world to see.”

You blink.

He smiles faintly. “And I’d do it again.”

***

Later, after food and water and meds, you lie on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, head on his lap.

The TV is on mute. He’s playing with your fingers.

“Why’d you really come?” You ask.

He shrugs. “I told you. I missed you.”

“You could’ve waited a week. Or a month. Or until I was less of a disaster.”

He looks down at you.

“I didn’t want to wait until you were performing wellness,” he says quietly. “I wanted you. Mess and all.”

You stare at him.

“I thought if I showed up and it was hard, we’d figure it out. If you didn’t want me here, I’d leave. But I couldn’t keep pretending this was just a maybe.”

Your chest aches.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.”

“But it’s not easy.”

“I don’t want easy,” he says. “I want you.”

You turn into his lap and let yourself believe it.

***

“Monaco?” You repeat, like the word might dissolve if you say it wrong.

Charles shrugs like it’s no big deal, like Monaco is just … a place. A backdrop. Not his backdrop.

“Yeah,” he says, stirring sugar into your tea like he has any business making himself at home in your kitchen. “It’s a charity gala. Formal. Very, uh …” He pauses. “Gala-y.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

You narrow your eyes. “Black tie?”

He nods. “Tuxedos. Champagne. Silent auction. Speeches. Fancy food you’ll hate. The whole thing.”

“And you want me there?”

He looks up. “Of course I do.”

You swallow. “Charles, I’m not a gala person.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even have anything to wear.”

“I’ll send options.”

“And if I flare halfway through dinner?”

“Then we leave halfway through dinner.”

“And what about the press? The headlines? You know they’ll have a field day.”

He leans on the counter, all elbows and earnestness. “Let them.”

***

You say no. Then yes. Then no again.

You picture the dress you’d have to squeeze into. The long tables and cameras and cold, white lighting. The tightness of formalwear. The noise. The bodies. The scrutiny.

And then you picture Charles. Soft smile. Steady hand. That impossibly calming way he says your name.

You hate that you want to go. You hate even more that some part of you wants to be seen.

You hate most of all that you’re afraid of ruining it.

***

The night of the gala, your car pulls up just after eight.

You’re not late. You’re strategic.

Your cane is pearl-handled, collapsible. Hidden in your clutch until the very last second.

Your dress is navy silk, perfectly tailored. Your back brace is tucked beneath the boning. Your heels are stashed in your handbag; you arrive in flats, because function is the new black.

You sit in the car, staring out at the blinding entrance of the Hôtel de Paris. The photographers. The crowd. The shimmering illusion of it all.

You breathe in. And out. And in again.

Your fingers tremble around the cane handle.

“I don’t have to go in,” you murmur to no one.

Except Charles is already there.

And then — like he can feel your hesitation — he turns. He finds your car in the crowd. And smiles.

Not that polished, polite smile he gives sponsors. But his smile. The one that means I see you.

He walks down the steps in his tuxedo and opens your door.

“Hi,” he says softly.

You blink hard. “Hi.”

“You look beautiful.”

You look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

He crouches to your level. “I want to say it.”

Your hands flutter nervously. “I-I brought heels. In case. And meds. And snacks. And my brace is on. And I ate before. And I have exit plans.”

He squeezes your knee gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

You exhale shakily. “I want to go in.”

His eyes crinkle. “Then let’s go.”

He holds your cane while you swap shoes. Waits while you steady yourself. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t pressure.

When you loop your arm through his, you feel steadier. Not because the pain’s gone. But because someone sees it and still wants you beside him.

***

The flashbulbs explode like summer storms. People turn. Cameras adjust. Whispers flutter through the crowd like a breeze.

You hear them.

“That’s her.”

“The one who fainted in Austin?”

“She brought a cane?”

“What’s she wearing?”

“She’s so … normal-looking.”

Charles’ fingers tighten around yours.

You lean in. “They're staring.”

He glances down. “Let them.”

And you do. You hold his hand. You lift your chin. You walk in.

Not like you’re floating. Not like it’s effortless. But like it matters.

***

The ballroom glows gold.

You find your assigned seats near the stage, and you’re quietly thankful to see they’ve placed a chair with extra cushioning beside Charles’.

“Did you-”

He shrugs. “Might have made some calls.”

You blink back something tight in your throat. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not pretending this is easy.”

He brushes your knuckles. “You make it look easier than it is.”

You smile. “That’s the influencer magic.”

“Mm.” He leans close. “I know better.”

***

Dinner is elegant and inedible.

You take two bites of salmon before setting down your fork. Charles slides a protein bar under the tablecloth like a smuggler.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“You love it.”

You grin. “A little.”

He leans back, looking at you like there’s no one else in the room.

***

You don’t expect to end up beside her.

Princess Charlene.

Platinum hair swept into a knot, posture like steel. Somehow luminous and quietly intimidating at once.

Charles is whisked away for photos with Prince Albert. You’re left at the table, sipping water, wondering if anyone would notice if you disappeared into the nearest powder room and never came back.

Then-

“I follow your account,” Charlene says, voice low and clear.

You blink. “Sorry?”

She nods once. “Your writing. The post about pushing through pain — my sister sent it to me.”

You try not to gape. “Oh.”

“I liked the part where you said ‘visibility isn’t vanity.’”

You wet your lips. “I meant it.”

She turns, eyes sharp. “Most women are trained not to say things like that.”

You laugh under your breath. “Most women with endometriosis are trained not to say anything at all.”

She tilts her head. “You’re saying something now.”

You glance toward Charles.

Charlene follows your gaze. “He’s very fond of you.”

You flush. “He’s … kind.”

She considers that. “He’s more than that.”

You smile. “Yeah. He is.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she reaches for her glass. “You’re very brave.”

You look down. “It doesn’t feel like bravery. It feels like survival.”

She clinks her glass softly against yours. “Same thing, sometimes.”

***

When Charles returns, he finds you mid-laugh beside the princess, your cheeks flushed and your posture relaxed.

“She told me the palace once served chicken nuggets at a diplomatic luncheon,” you whisper as he slides into his chair.

His eyes widen. “She didn’t.”

You nod solemnly. “She did.”

He stares at you for a moment, admiration blooming.

“Monaco looks good on you,” he says.

You snort. “I’m wearing Spanx and a heat patch.”

“Still.”

***

The evening winds down. The auction ends. The music softens. People begin to drift toward the exit, shoes in hand, makeup smudged, champagne fuzzing their edges.

You lean into Charles’s shoulder, whispering, “Can we go soon?”

He looks down. “Pain?”

You nod.

He doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t fumble. Just stands, offers a hand, tucks your cane under his arm like it’s a clutch purse, and walks you out like he’s done it a thousand times.

***

Outside, the air is cool and clean. The sea glitters like spilled stars.

“Was that too much?” He asks.

You shake your head. “No. Not with you.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “You were brilliant.”

“I was nervous.”

“I was proud.”

You smile. “They didn’t know what to make of me.”

“Good.”

You look up at him. “I think they expected someone easier.”

“They got someone real.”

You lean into him. “Let them look?”

He nods. “Let them look.”

***

Back at his apartment, you peel off the dress with slow, aching movements.

Your cane leans against the wall. Your brace is unstrapped. Your back screams.

Charles hands you his comfiest hoodie and a mug of chamomile tea.

You collapse onto his couch, one leg draped over a cushion, socks mismatched, makeup half-removed.

He sits beside you, still in his tuxedo, loosening his bow tie.

“You were amazing tonight,” he says.

“I was barely holding it together.”

He smiles. “That’s what made it amazing.”

You sip your tea. “They’re gonna talk.”

“They already are.”

You look at him. “And you’re okay with that?”

He shrugs. “They’ll say what they want. I know what’s true.”

You bite your lip. “And what’s that?”

He touches your knee gently.

“That you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

You look away.

He leans in. “And also … I think I’m falling in love with you.”

You freeze. The mug trembles slightly in your hands.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You sure?”

He smiles softly. “Very.”

You set the mug down. Take his hand. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you might be lovable exactly as you are.

***

It happens slowly, like most things with the two of you.

Not with fireworks or declarations or splashy red carpet appearances.

But with quiet mornings.

With a reusable Ferrari water bottle on your nightstand and Charles’ suitcase beside your coat rack.

With your French bulldog curled loyally against his ribs, snoring.

With a heating pad perpetually plugged in on the couch, his hand resting near it, careful not to disturb.

With your world bending — not breaking — to make room for someone who never makes you feel like too much.

***

It’s been three months since the gala.

You haven’t posted much since then. Nothing obvious, at least.

A blurry photo of two croissants on a balcony table. A video of a Monaco sunset, just faintly revealing a masculine silhouette behind you. A reposted reel from a chronic illness creator, with the caption we are not defined by the convenience of our bodies.

But nothing that says, this is my person. Nothing that says Charles.

The world has noticed, though. They’ve seen the photos.

Of you in a wheelchair at the Nice airport — Charles behind you, pushing it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Of him exiting your New York book signing event through a side door, hoodie up, unmistakable jawline exposed. Of your dog being walked down the street side-by-side with Leo in Monte Carlo by one Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, his leash in one hand and the dachshund’s in the other.

The gossip accounts are having a field day. They call it “the soft launch of the year.”

***

You’re sitting on your couch when it happens.

Legs curled under a blanket, heating pad tucked against your abdomen. Charles is beside you, fully horizontal, your Frenchie planted squarely on his chest like a sentry. His lips are parted in sleep, hand dangling off the couch, phone still clutched loosely in his fingers.

You should let him sleep. But instead, you take the photo.

You don’t overthink it. You just capture it: the soft curls of his hair, the lazy fold of his hoodie sleeve, the tiny pink paw on his collarbone. Your heating pad cord is visible in the corner. So are your compression socks.

It’s not a “perfect” picture. But it’s real. And real is what you’ve promised yourself you’d always be.

***

You open Instagram.

Ignore the five unanswered texts from your publicist. The DM request from an F1 meme page. The saved drafts of all the captions you’ve written and rewritten.

You upload the photo. Type one sentence.

Love doesn’t fix the pain. But it stays through it.

You hit post before you can change your mind. Then you drop your phone on the floor and groan into your throw pillow.

Charles stirs. “Hm?”

You turn to him. “I did a thing.”

He lifts his head slightly, groggy. “What kind of thing?”

You wince. “A relationship announcement thing.”

He blinks. “Wait, you posted?”

You nod. “You and the dog. Asleep. Couch vibes.”

He reaches for his phone, squinting at the screen.

“Oh,” he says. And then he grins.

You chew your lip. “Is it bad?”

He shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

You raise a brow. “Even with the heating pad?”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. “Especially with the heating pad.”

***

The post explodes.

Within ten minutes, it’s already being screenshotted and re-uploaded across the internet. Within an hour, it’s viral.

Your notifications are a tidal wave. Comments flood in.

This is the kind of love I want.

He looks so safe there 😭

The way she said ‘love doesn’t fix it. Ugh, gut punch 🥺

Disability isn’t a dealbreaker. This is proof.

The chronically ill community shows up in droves.

So do F1 fans.

Your DM inbox turns into a surreal mix of “Thank you for showing this” and “Does Charles like croissants or pain au chocolat?”

You read a few. Cry a little. Laugh a lot.

Then put your phone down again, because life is still happening. And so is your pain.

***

By early evening, you’re curled back up on the couch, forehead sweaty, jaw clenched.

Charles returns from the kitchen with a glass of water and your meds.

“I’ve got it,” he says gently, crouching beside you.

You close your eyes. “It’s a bad one.”

“I can tell.”

“I shouldn’t have posted. Stress makes it worse.”

He tucks the heating pad closer to your lower back. “You were ready. Your body just isn’t cooperating.”

You blink back tears. “What if they think I’m milking it?”

Charles scoffs. “Who thinks that?”

“Randoms. Trolls. Commenters. People who don’t get it.”

He tucks a blanket over you. “People who don’t get it don’t matter.”

“I want them to know I’m still capable. I’m not just … sick.”

“You’re not just anything,” he says softly. “You’re brilliant. And stubborn. And smart. And funny. And incredibly difficult to beat at Mario Kart.”

You sniff. “That’s because I am brilliant.”

He smiles. “And you live with pain that would flatten most people.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You make everything look easy.”

He frowns. “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

“I don’t mean being with me. I mean being … like this. Like it’s no big deal.”

He runs a hand down your arm. “It is a big deal. But loving you isn’t hard. The hard part is not being able to take it away.”

Your chest cracks open.

He sees it — all of it. And he stays.

***

Later that night, the post makes the news.

Your publicist sends a voice memo: “I’m surrendering. It’s too good. I can’t PR-manage something that pure. Godspeed.”

You laugh, curled into Charles’ side.

He grins. “Tell her thanks for the vote of confidence.”

You look at him, really look.

His face soft in the glow of your bedside lamp. His thumb tracing idle circles on your shoulder.

You never thought this kind of love was for you. Not when your body betrays you. Not when rest is your full-time job. Not when you have to plan your outfits around access to emergency bathrooms.

But here he is. Choosing you. Over and over again.

***

“So,” you say quietly. “This is real.”

He nods. “Very.”

“And public.”

Another nod. “Definitely.”

“Still time to back out.”

He chuckles. “You think I’d survive if I broke up with you after that post?”

You snort. “The disabled girlies would riot.”

“And your Frenchie would never forgive me.”

You lean into him, bury your face in his hoodie. “Thanks for staying.”

He tilts his head against yours. “Thanks for letting me.”

***

The comments don’t stop for days. But neither does your life.

You keep writing. Keep resting. Keep managing — because surviving your own body is a full-time feat.

But now you do it with another toothbrush in the holder. With Charles’ hoodie in your laundry bin. With his hand in yours under the table, squeezing three times when it hurts too much to talk.

***

At one point, a fan asks Charles in the paddock, “Is this a distraction?”

He looks straight into the camera and says, “No. This is a reminder of what matters.”

You watch the clip alone, blinking too fast. And then you go downstairs and hug him like he’s oxygen.

Because love doesn’t fix the pain. But it makes you brave enough to stay through it.

***

The love story never goes viral again. Not like the couch photo. Not like the gala.

But somehow, this part is the best part. Because love stops being an announcement and starts being a rhythm. A pattern. A daily hum you can fall asleep to.

***

It begins with a chair.

You don’t even notice it the first time. Race weekend, early spring. Australia. Jet lag is eating you alive and your pelvis feels like it’s carved from stone. Still, you come — because you want to. Because you can, with the right prep. Because Charles asked with that boyish tilt to his head and a quiet, “You’ll come, yeah?”

The Ferrari garage is the usual chaos — mechanics rushing, strategists tapping iPads, engineers adjusting telemetry like surgeons.

But in the corner, right near the monitor bank, there’s a chair.

Not one of those hard plastic folding ones, but a wide, plush, ridiculous-looking thing. The kind you’d expect in a therapist’s office. Overstuffed and low to the ground, with a supportive lumbar pillow behind it and your favorite heated cushion already turned on.

You stare. “Is that-”

Laura from Ferrari beams at you. “Charles insisted.”

You blink. “What?”

“He said if he had to sit in the cockpit for two hours, the least we could do is make sure you weren’t stuck on a barstool.”

You touch the chair cautiously, like it might disappear. “It’s … perfect.”

“He sent three options,” Laura adds with a conspiratorial wink. “Had us vote on which one matched the aesthetic.”

***

The next race, it’s already there. Same corner. Same pillow. Same quiet, intentional care.

You don’t say anything to Charles about it that night. Not directly. Just curl into him on the hotel bed after dinner, whispering, “Thank you,” into his collarbone.

He kisses your hair. “Always.”

***

His driver’s room is next.

You notice it in Saudi Arabia, after a brutal Friday practice. The air is thick, sticky. You’re sweating through your dress even in the shade, your pelvis feels like it’s made of molten steel, and you’ve pushed your body harder than you should’ve.

Charles leads you back to the tiny, makeshift space on the second floor of the Ferrari motorhome — barely big enough for two people and a camera tripod.

But now the couch is different. Softer. Blanketed.

Two throw pillows — one firm, one squishy. And your weighted blanket, the navy blue one with the tiny gold stars, folded neatly on the armrest.

You blink. “You brought the blanket?”

He shrugs. “You rest better with it.”

“You packed my blanket in your race bag?”

He lifts a brow. “It was either that or you trying to nap on a jacket again.”

You sink onto the couch. “God, I love you.”

He laughs, sitting on the edge, wiping his brow with a towel. “I’m glad. Because I asked them to build a shelf for your TENS unit next week.”

***

Sometimes, love is in the messages.

Like the ones Charles leaves with the team when he’s in the car. You’d thought it was coincidence at first, how a different Ferrari team member would stop by every twenty minutes during quali.

“Need water?”

“Charles said you were shivering last time, brought a blanket.”

“He wanted to check if you needed anything salty. Here’s some chips.”

Eventually, it clicks.

He’s orchestrating it all. Even while driving 300km/h. Even with a helmet on.

After the race, you narrow your eyes at him in the motorhome. “You’re sending people to check on me.”

He doesn’t even look up from unlacing his boots. “Obviously.”

“You’re supposed to be focusing.”

“I am,” he says calmly. “On driving. And you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s a puddle. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says with a smirk. “But you love that about me.”

You chuck a throw pillow at his head.

***

The truth is, you’ve never felt safer.

Not because the pain is gone — it’s not. Not because life is easier — it still isn’t. But because someone sees you, every day, and chooses not to flinch.

Even on your worst days — when you can’t sit up, when you can’t fake the smile, when all you can do is lie on your side and cry from the pressure in your lower back — he’s still there.

Sometimes, he lies next to you without a word. Sometimes, he reads aloud from whatever book’s on your nightstand. Sometimes — your favorite — he hums.

Little snippets of melodies. Soft, careful, incomplete.

“What is that?” You ask one night, curled into his chest, pain buzzing like static in your pelvis.

“Nothing yet,” he murmurs, his fingers in your hair. “Just something I’m working on.”

***

Eventually, he records them.

It’s a surprise. You wake up one morning to three missed calls from Amanda-Ashley, one text from your publicist that says DON’T SCREAM, and a Twitter feed full of headlines.

CHARLES LECLERC RELEASES PIANO EP TO RAISE FUNDS FOR ENDOMETRIOSIS RESEARCH

‘For Her’: Ferrari Driver’s Album Honors Girlfriend’s Pain Journey

You sit up in bed, heart pounding.

Click the link.

The songs are all titled For You, Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III.

You recognize them. From the nights he hummed you to sleep. From the mornings you couldn’t get out of bed. From the moment he held your hand backstage at your first keynote and whispered, “I wrote something for you.”

Each song is soft. Mournful, a little. But also strong. Hopeful. Real.

The streaming profits go directly to The Endometriosis Association.

The first week, it charts in fourteen countries.

***

You call him, tears in your throat. “You wrote music?”

He sounds sheepish. “I didn’t want to tell you until it was ready.”

“It’s stunning, Charles.”

“You really think so?”

“I cried.”

He exhales. “Okay, good. Because I didn’t sleep for a month editing the damn thing.”

You laugh wetly. “And you didn’t even name one after my dog?”

“Next album,” he promises.

***

The first time he plays the songs for you live, you’re in his dimly lit music room in Monaco, surrounded by old guitars and dusty trophies. Your legs are draped over his lap, a heating pad humming beneath the piano bench.

He presses a key. The sound is soft.

His eyes never leave yours. You cry halfway through. He keeps playing.

When he finishes, he looks at you gently. “That’s how I hear you.”

You blink. “Broken?”

“No,” he says. “Brave.”

Love is in the chair at every race. The blanket in his driver’s room. The fact that your emergency meds are now stored next to Charles’ energy gels in his travel bag.

It’s in how you kiss his temple before every quali. In how he whispers, “You’ve got this,” before every panel you speak on. In how you tell him, “No, you don’t need to come,” and he shows up anyway.

Love is how he never makes you feel like you owe him anything. And how, somehow, you both feel like the lucky one.

***

One night, back in your apartment, you’re watching a movie with his head in your lap, dog snoring at your feet.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” You ask suddenly.

He looks up. “Of what?”

“This. Me. The pain. The cancellations. The heating pads. The meds. The weight of it all.”

He frowns. “No.”

You chew your lip. “Be honest.”

“I am,” he says, sitting up, taking your hand. “It’s hard. But it’s not you that makes it hard.”

You say nothing.

He squeezes your hand. “You’re not your pain, you know.”

“I am, though. Sometimes.”

He kisses your knuckles. “I know. And I love you through it. Not in spite of it.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“But you’re mine.”

He smiles. “Forever, if you’ll let me.”

***

The headlines die down. Your world stays bright. Pain still flares. Exhaustion still claws. But now, you have help carrying it.

A second toothbrush. A warm hand. A playlist of lullabies written just for you.

Love doesn’t fix the pain. But it softens the edges. And that’s enough.

1K notes · View notes

ainsworthluv · 15 days ago

Text

dress to impress | lando norris

You innocently show Lando the dress to impress game. But his competitive side can't handle playing casually.

Lando adjusted the $10 000 headset over his curls and flashed a grin at the camera.

“Okay, team,” he announced, fingers drumming on the desk, “tonight we’re shaking things up. Instead of putting my ridiculously expensive rig through its paces on Call of Duty, we’re playing a very… special request from Y/N.”

A bright voice chimed in from off-screen. “Hi, everyone!” Y/N waved, her trademark one-sided dimple carving an adorable crescent in her cheek.

Lando sighed theatrically. “Look, no complaints. Our relationship is simple: Y/N decides; I execute. What’s this masterpiece called again?”

“Dress to Impress,” she declared, already booting up the game.

“What kind of nonsense is that?”

“Not nonsense—fashion warfare,” she corrected, climbing onto his lap and settling in. “You get a theme, you style your avatar, and the best look wins.”

The livestream chat exploded—half the audience ecstatic for the curveball, the other half mourning the loss of COD carnage. Lando slipped an arm around Y/N’s waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as she explained the rules.

“Round’s timed, so be quick,” she said. “First theme: the 1950s.”

“So all I have to do is dress up a doll?” he asked, brow raised.

“Within the theme,” she reminded him, laughing while she guided his frantic clicks. Minutes later, his surprisingly chic creation spun on-screen.

“Admit it,” he crowed. “You love my doll.”

“I like her. Love is a stretch,” Y/N teased—then the votes rolled in. Third place.

“Third?” Lando’s jaw dropped. “Who are these tasteless heathens voting?”

“Probably ten-year-old girls, darling.”

“Them and their questionable fashion sense,” he huffed, launching the next round. “Right—why can’t I select this jacket?”

“It’s locked. Costs Robux.”

“And I get Robux how?”

“Real money.”

He thrust out his hand. “Wallet, please.”

“Are you serious?” Y/N asked.

“Completely. Fetch the wallet before injustice strikes again!”

She returned, wallet in hand, to find him rubbing his neck—his tell-tale sign of frustration.

“Don’t tell me you placed worse?”

“Fourth. Theme was K-pop.”

“Make sense. You know zero about K-pop.”

“I know plenty—I met Lisa from BLACKPINK!” he protested.

Y/N eyed his avatar, a riot of clashing neons. “It’s… very colorful.”

“Bold,” he corrected. “Wallet, please. I need those Robux.”

Hours passed with Lando deep in digital couture combat. Y/N stayed for a while—long enough to hear a record number of creative expletives lobbed at pre-teen competitors—then surrendered to sleep.

Sometime after midnight, a triumphant yell shattered the quiet. She shuffled back to the office doorway, hair tousled, eyes bleary.

“Lando, what happened?”

He spun in his chair, victorious gleam in his eyes. “Turns out sugarpinklily2939’s denim-inspired look wasn’t so iconic after all. Cry about it, sweetheart!”

Y/N just laughed, crossing her arms. “Congratulations, Fashion King. Now come to bed before the children report you for bullying.”

He paused, headset askew, then grinned. “Deal. But first—one more round. I have to defend my crown.”

And somewhere in the chat, a thousand ten-year-olds readied themselves for battle.

#lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando norris #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic

2K notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Note

Here my out. I don't have a solid concept other than Bob finds a sketchbook filled with supersuit concepts so he starts flipping through it and it turns into pictures of the team and then pictures of just him. Anyway reader finds him looking at it and somehow the conversation ends up like "sorry, you're just really pretty in the sunlight. I mean, you're pretty in any light." I just need someone to tell Bob he's pretty 😭

Velour and Velcro

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a hobby of drawing and designing things in your spare time, one day Bob stumbles across your sketchbook and discovers something surprising.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess cause Bob. No crazy warnings apart from that partners, just super fluffy, super sweet stuff happening here, with like a hint of intimacy :)

Author’s Note: Thought I’d make a cute little one-shot for today as I’ve been focusing on a lot of my bigger works and getting those prepared for posting (there’s not a lot of editing to do, just want to go through it with a fine toothed comb.). Hope y’all enjoy this one though!

Word Count: 5,939

The common room of the compound had been a war zone not even less than an hour ago.

The aftermath of game night still lingered in the air like smoke after a fireworks show–explosive, and borderline destructive. A half-empty bowl of popcorn had been flung across the room at some point, scattering kernels into the shag rug. Three pillows had been used as makeshift shields. Walker had accused Yelena of cheating, and Yelena had accused Walker of being a “living embodiment of a root canal.” Ava had sat back and watched the chaos, while Bucky and Alexei had both quietly removed themselves to get their respective alcoholic beverages–Bucky’s was whiskey, Alexei’s was vodka.

Through it all though, you had sat curled into the corner of the oversized grey cloud couch–legs folded up, sketchbook braced against your thighs, pencil and pen moving in quick, distracted arcs while chaos was blooming around you.

Bob had taken refuge in the open kitchen where he would be able to hide slightly from the chaos, and bake without being totally bothered by people.

The cake he made had started as a peace offering and became a full-blown stress bake the moment he heard someone scream “YOU CAN’T STACK DRAW FOURS” with the kind of fury usually reserved for battlefield decisions. The rich scent of chocolate and vanilla had poured into the air, mingling with the salt and butter from the popcorn, and the faint citrus of someone’s spilled soda that still clung to the coffee table.

Now, the kitchen was dark. The last flicker of the oven light had gone out. Most of the team had vanished to their quarters, trailing groggy grumbles and sore losers’ muttering. The common room had finally settled, breathing again after the riot of laughter and arguing had burned itself out.

Only a single lamp remained on beside the couch, casting warm, golden rays over the cushions and the floor beneath. The glow hit the coffee table in soft shapes, glinting off an abandoned spoon and catching in the tiny rainbow oil spill of a spilled cup of tea. Outside the windows, the city buzzed on–he could hear everything even though he was eighty levels up above the streets; car horns honking, people’s laughter, the booming bass coming from clubs.

Bob sat on the edge of the couch, right where you had been earlier.

The cushions were still warm, and your blanket was slipping off onto the floor. And there–tucked beneath one of the throw pillows–was your sketchbook.

He had picked it up with every intention of returning it to your room, but it felt so warm in his hands, and familiar because it was yours–the temptation was great.

You took it everywhere with you–mission briefings, airport lounges, quiet rooftops. He had watched you doodle in the margins of reports, on napkins, sometimes on your own hands when you ran out of space. He’d seen you sketch everything from tactical armor blueprints to a cartoon of Alexei in a tutu–as per his request because he thought you would be able to execute it perfectly…He still has it hanging in his room. Bob admired your creativity, how you were able to conjure anything up onto paper without really thinking about it, and the pride on your face when you made someone laugh with a sketch of them. You took joy in the little things, and Bob loved that about you…It was one of the multitude of things that made him grow so attached to you in such a short period of time as well.

So when he flipped the book open, just to see what tonight had looked like through your eyes…Bob couldn’t help but smile.

The first page hit him like a kaleidoscope–an explosion of rough linework, little notes crammed into the margins, and the chaotic charm that could only belong to you. A suit with heat-reactive armor filled the center, the panels labeled and crosshatched, but the entire thing was surrounded by doodles of stars and question marks. A sticky note had been pressed into the corner with a scrawl that read:

“Would this melt? Ask Ava. Or throw it into a bonfire and find out.”

Tucked under the edge of the next page was a scrap of metallic blue fabric–shiny, a little torn at the edge, maybe scavenged from a prototype–and beside it, you’d written:

“Love this for night missions. Or roller disco.”

He flipped another page.

More sketches. Some wildly technical–complete with annotations, chemical compound breakdowns, tensile strength estimates. Others looked like pure fantasy. There was one labeled “Bucky but make it James Bond” with a tuxedo that clearly had at least three concealed weapons built into it and a bowtie that doubled as a GPS tracker. Right beneath it, you’d scribbled:

“He’s going to hate this. It’s perfect.”

Next to it:

“New project idea: suit that deploys snacks for the hangry people on the team.”

There were fingerprints smudged across some pages. A couple places where tea had clearly splattered–rings of soft brown staining the edges, a few ink trails bleeding where it had touched the lines. Some of the pages had been ripped out and taped back in, corners folded and unfolding like they’d been touched again and again.

It wasn’t just a sketchbook. It was a journal. A blueprint. A scrapbook of your brain.

On one page, tucked into a hand-stitched envelope you’d glued to the inside of the paper, was a tiny Polaroid of Yelena fast asleep during a mission debriefing, mouth slightly open, arms crossed. You’d captioned it:

“Her highness at rest. Do not wake unless you want to be attacked.”

There was another one a few pages later: Alpine in full loaf mode on top of Bucky’s clean laundry pile. Her eyes were mid-blink, deeply unimpressed with the camera. Beneath it:

“Make Bucky a serious portrait of her for his b-day. Buy oil paints and a heavy frame. She deserves it.”

Bob laughed quietly to himself, breath fogging a little against the thick silence of the room. The sketchbook was warm in his lap now, heavy with secrets, and he felt like he’d broken into something sacred–but you’d also left it there, hadn’t you?

Part of him wondered if that was on purpose.

He flipped again. Slower now.

The sketches were less structured as he turned the pages. More personal. Little candid moments rendered in soft lines and shaded pencil.

Ava with her nose buried in a novel, curled under three blankets in the common room.

Walker fast asleep with his mouth open and one sock half-off from Alpine pulling at it, labeled “he snores like a wood chipper.”

Alexei doing squats with a few books balanced on his shoulders like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Bucky standing in the hall with a grocery bag slung over his shoulder and a faint smile on his face–captured like you’d seen it only once and hadn’t wanted to forget.

He flipped again.

Still more familiar faces—moments frozen in graphite and ink.

Yelena dancing alone in the kitchen, socked feet sliding on the tile. Ava perched on the compound balcony, wind tangling her hair as she stared out at the horizon. Walker and Alexei arm-wrestling over a stack of pancakes. Even Val, drawn from behind, pacing a briefing room with her phone clutched in one hand like it was a weapon.

Page after page of everyone else. Little snapshots of the people you spent your days with, drawn in affection and detail. Not always flattering, but always seen.

And Bob…

He wasn’t anywhere.

He turned the page again.

There it was–a suit design labeled SENTRY (high altitude / max durability). It was stunning. Sleek. Reinforced in all the right places. Smart. Sharp. Sharp in a way that felt distant from the rest. You’d even drawn it over a silhouette that wasn’t quite him—too tall, too broad, too composed.

Your handwriting was still there though. All the notes, all the care.

“Reduce friction on shoulder seams. They always leave marks.”

“Flexible core armor. He moves quieter than you’d expect.”

“Lining should be soft. He won’t ask, but he hates the scratchy stuff.”

Bob stared at the page, chest tightening.

You paid attention. You always paid attention. But this didn’t feel like the others. It wasn’t him. It was the idea of him. What he wore. What he could withstand. What the Sentry needed to be.

The ache bloomed slowly in his chest, quiet and a little hollow.

Because maybe you didn’t draw him the way you drew them. Maybe to you, he was mostly suit specs and duty. Not laughter. Not stillness. Not warmth. Maybe you only looked at him in relation to what he could do–not who he was when he wasn’t glowing.

He turned the page anyway. Resigned.

And something fell.

A loose sheet slipped from the binding–like it had been tucked there with a kind of reluctant care. Not meant to be lost. But maybe not meant to be found so easily either.

Bob caught it midair.

And his breath left him.

It was him.

Drawn entirely in pencil, soft and textured. He was sitting on the common room windowsill in profile, knees pulled up, chin resting on his arm. The city behind him glowed like a galaxy, but the light you’d shaded most carefully wasn’t the skyline. It was the way it spilled across his shoulder and cheek.

Sunlight. Or something that felt like it.

He stared at it, stunned.

There was no suit. No armor. Just Bob. Just quiet.

He flipped the page.

Another sketch.

Bob on the rooftop, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, the wind ruffling his hair. He was mid-laugh. The kind of laugh that closed his eyes, tilted his head back. You’d captured the movement like you hadn’t wanted to forget a single detail. And again–there was light. Sketchy, warm, bleeding across the horizon and catching in his smile.

He flipped again. Faster now.

There he was–dozing on the Quinjet, arms crossed, sun pouring through the window and across the bridge of his nose.

There–leaning against the railing in the compound garden, hair mussed, holding a mug. His silhouette edged in early morning glow.

There–half-turned toward you in the middle of a conversation, eyes soft, lips parted. Lit from the side like you’d drawn him straight from memory. Every version of him surrounded by brightness. Like you couldn’t separate him from light even if you tried.

The ache in his chest cracked open into something else.

Wonder.

Disbelief.

Hope, soft and new.

He turned one last page.

This time, it was just his face. Close-up. No background. No distraction. His eyes were open–looking just slightly off to the side, like he was listening. A small crease between his brows, his lips parted as if he’d just started to speak. The light hit only one side of his face, casting the rest in gentle shadow.

And under it, scrawled in your familiar, almost apologetic handwriting:

“I don’t know why I always draw him in the sun. Maybe because that’s how I see him…My Golden Boy.”

Bob stared at the words; My Golden Boy.

His heart thumped once, hard–then stuttered like it was trying to reset itself, like it completely forgot its job. The breath caught behind his ribs trembled, and slowed when it left him. He wasn’t used to seeing himself like this–not as the Sentry, not even as himself…But as someone you looked at with wonder. With affection…With light.

He pressed his hand gently to the page, fingers trembling slightly as if the graphite might smear. His name wasn’t written anywhere, but it didn’t have to be. It was all him. The way you’d drawn the softness in his expression. The warm shadows. The quiet tension in his brow that only surfaced when he was thinking too hard and trying not to let it show.

He could still feel the echo of your voice in the caption, even though he hadn’t heard it out loud.

Maybe because that’s how I see him…

Bob’s fingertips were still hovering over the page–his page–when he heard the quiet creak of the hallway floorboards.

He sat bolt upright.

And then you appeared in the doorway.

Fresh from the shower.

Your maroon robe clung to your shoulders, cinched loosely at the waist, and the dim light from the lamp pooled over your damp collarbones and down the glisten of your chest like water still hadn’t finished tracing its path across you. The robe stuck slightly to your skin in places, hinting at curves and damp warmth beneath. Your hair was wet, curling and dripping at the ends, your legs bare and gleaming from the knee down. You looked soft. Blurred around the edges from heat and water. And the way your eyes swept the room like you’d just remembered something important made Bob feel like the oxygen had been sucked out of the compound.

“Oh,” You said, eyes landing on him, then on the sketchbook. Your lips curled into a sly, sleepy smile. “Caught you red-handed…”Bob opened his mouth. No sound came out.

You stepped into the light, unbothered, tugging the robe closed just slightly more as you approached.

“Sorry,” You murmured, mock whispering like you were letting him in on a secret, “Forgot I left it out here. I usually hide my embarrassing fanart in my room.”

He blinked, surprised by how casual you sounded. “This isn’t—this isn’t embarrassing.”

“Oh no?” You asked, arching a brow. “Not even the page where I drew a suit that dispenses emergency pizza rolls?” He let out a breath of a laugh, eyes dropping to the sketchbook that was still open in his lap.

“I d-don’t think I made i-it to that page.” He muttered, his voice soft and nervous. He was always nervous around you, and his stutter became worse when you were around him. Bob swallowed hard, fingers still curled protectively around the edges of the sketchbook as you settled onto the couch beside him, tucking your smooth, bare legs up under you with ease. The robe shifted again–just slightly–but it was enough to make the air leave his lungs slowly, like they were also resigning from working. You noticed his sudden stillness and smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.

”You really didn’t get to the pizza roll suit?” You asked, kissing your teeth, “What a tragedy. It’s probably the most important contribution I’ve made to modern tactical gear.” Bob let out a shaky laugh, feeling it catch in his chest briefly. You smelled like fresh citrus, like someone had cut up lemons and limes and saved the skin and sprinkled sugar on them. You always smelled sweet to him, and now with the close proximity it was apparent that it was definitely a mixture of your natural scent and a lotion of some kind that gave you that essence.

“I-I’d wear the pizza roll suit,” He started, “If i-it meant I got to be in your s-sketchbook more often.” You tilted your head at him, eyes sweeping his face with a smirk that softened the edges of your mouth.

”Bob Reynolds, are you flirting with me?” Bob’s face went pink almost instantly. It wasn’t a quick flush, either–it bloomed slowly, like heat rising from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was cycling through a thousand possible replies and discarding every single one.

“I–uh–n-no–” He stammered, then gave up with a breathy laugh. His eyes flicked to the sketchbook and then quickly away, like it might catch fire if he stared too long. You tilted your head, grinning softly.

“I like it,” You murmured, and your voice was quieter now. Gentler. “You, flustered. It’s…Sweet.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, as though he didn’t know what to do with a word like that in your mouth–like it wasn’t meant for someone like him. He glanced down, fumbling for something safe to say, but his gaze caught on the sketch again. The one you knew he’d been looking at.

“That one,” You said, following his eyes. Your voice dipped low. “It’s one of my best.” He looked up at you slowly.

“Why do y-you call me that?” He asked, almost a whisper. His hand brushed lightly over the corner of the page. “‘G-Golden boy.’”

You shifted beside him, your knee brushing his. The robe slipped a little on your shoulder but you didn’t fix it. Instead, you leaned in slightly, voice so soft it nearly caught on the warmth between you.

“Because you look pretty in the sunlight,” You responded, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat, reverberating through him like soft thunder. He didn’t know how to hold them. They weren’t something he’d ever been given before–not like this, not in a tone that curled with heat and truth and something dangerously close to want.

You were so close he could feel the steam from your shower radiating off your skin, could see the droplets still clinging to the edge of your collarbone, the damp sheen painting your clavicle in a way that made his mouth dry. And then you tilted your head, eyes catching the lamp’s glow like they were catching him, and with a sultry little smile.

“For the record though…You look pretty in any lighting. But the sunlight just does something to you…” It was spoken like sin and silk. Like worship. Bob looked at you like you’d peeled the sky back and let the sun touch just him.

Your words lingered in the air like smoke after something mass–You look pretty in any lighting…But the sunlight just does something to you–and he was burning from the inside out. Blushing so deep it felt inhuman, like even his bones had turned a soft shade of pink. The warmth of your voice, the way you leaned in just enough to let the intimacy rest on the space between you—it was unraveling him. Gently. Completely.

His throat bobbed. His breath shook. And then, barely above a whisper, he answered:

“I think…I only look l-like because of the way you see me…”

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t practiced. It fell out of him soft and raw, stripped of armor, the kind of honesty that only exists between two people sitting too close in a quiet room.

And you smiled.

Not the teasing kind, not the cocky kind–but a slow, molten thing that curled at the edges of your mouth like you were letting him see something private. Something treasured.

”Do you want a live demo?” She asked, glancing at the sketchbook, before returning your gaze to his. Bob’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyebrows raised slightly, confusion and panic blooming all at once in his eyes like twin stars flaring to life.

“I–uh, I–I don’t–I mean, y-you don’t have to–”The words stumbled out, all jagged and half-formed, tumbling over one another in a panic that came from hope. From longing. From the quiet, desperate part of him that had spent so many nights dreaming of being this close to you and never once dared imagine it could feel like this.

You smiled again–soft and amused, but there was nothing mocking in it. If anything, there was kindness there. Heat. Want.

“Relax, golden boy,” You murmured, rising from the couch with an easy grace that made his stomach twist. You crossed to the low coffee table, brushing past the old Uno cards and empty mugs and remnants of popcorn carnage, and picked up your favorite pen from the chaos. As you turned back toward him, the lamp caught the curve of your throat, the warmth on your cheeks, and the dampness that lined your collarbone–and Bob swore he’d never seen anything more radiant in his life.

“It’s not a big deal,” You said gently, as though you weren’t walking him toward the edge of a moment that would burn into the rest of his existence. And then–slowly, deliberately–you crossed the room to him again.

Your hand found his chest.

Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just sure. Steady.

Your palm rested right over his heart–where it was pounding, thunderous under his ribs like it wanted to climb out just to get to you–and then you pushed. Softly. Gradually. Until Bob let himself be moved, shoulders sinking back into the plush cushions, legs parting slightly for balance, arms trembling where they rested at his sides.

You bit your lip–just a little–concentrating, maybe. Or maybe just savoring the moment, the way he looked with his head tilted up–admiring you. Awestruck. Unmoored.

Then you reached for the sketchbook still balanced on his lap, sliding it away gently, like it was no longer needed–because what you were about to draw wasn’t on paper.

Bob didn’t have time to ask what came next.

You climbed onto him.

One knee, then the other. Thighs bracketing his hips. Bare skin to soft cotton. You moved like water–like gravity had chosen you as its favorite–and then you settled, slow and devastating, into his lap.

Bob’s breath left him in a rush.

A whimper, almost. A sound he hadn’t meant to make.

His hands gripped the edge of the couch like they might keep him from floating away. Every part of you pressed against him now–your thighs warm and damp from your shower, the robe parting just enough to reveal the bare skin of your chest, your breath brushing his cheeks. The heat of you–your weight, your scent, your nearness–it made everything else disappear.

Time bent.

You were straddling him like you were meant to live there. Like he was built for this exact moment. And you were close. So close. He could see the tiny beads of water still clinging to the fine hairs at your temples. The curve of your bottom lip. The way your eyes searched his face with an intensity that made him feel naked–not in body, but in soul.

You rested the sketchbook on his stomach, the spine nestled against the slow rise and fall of his breath.

Then you leaned in.

“Don’t move,” You whispered, the pen now poised in your hand. “I want to remember this expression. The one where you look like you don’t know if you’re dreaming.”

Bob swallowed. Hard.

His voice, when it came, cracked like light through stained glass.

“I-I don’t think I am. But if I am, please…Don’t let me wake up yet.” His breath stuttered in his chest, shallow and tremoring, and his hands clenched tighter around the edge of the couch–white-knuckled, desperate. Like if he let go, he might reach for you. Might pull you closer. Might ruin this moment with the sheer want bleeding out of him.

Because he was trying not to think about your legs, draped warm over his thighs.

Not to think about the dip of your robe, the way it shifted every time you breathed.

Not to think about your scent curling around him like a memory he hadn’t earned.

And especially not to think about the way you looked at him–as if he was art already. As if he was worthy of being captured.

But God, he could feel everything.

The press of you against him. The delicate weight of the sketchbook rising and falling on his stomach like it had synced with his breath. And your hand–your hand was moving, slow and fluid, sketching something onto the page with such focus that it made him ache.

You were so close he could see the way your lashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down. The way your mouth curved softly in concentration. And still, his gaze drifted–devotional and restless. First to the hollow of your throat. Then to the curve of your knee. Then back to your mouth like it was something sanctified. Forbidden.

You glanced up and caught his eyes, smiling.

“You’re fidgeting,” You murmured, the pad of your thumb smudging a line across the paper. “What are you thinking about?” Bob could feel his throat tighten a bit, as he coughed a bit. His fingers spasming against the couch cushion.

”I-I’m not,” He whispered, too fast to sound convincing. Your brow arched, slowly.

”No? That blush says otherwise.” He could feel his cheeks grow hotter beneath your stare as he looked down at your hands, “Whatever is on your mind…Better tell me now…Or else I’ll have to draw you with steam coming out of your ears. Might ruin the composition.” You added, sweeping long graceful lines across the page. Bob’s throat worked around a sound that didn’t quite make it out. He shifted beneath you, breath fluttering through parted lips, and sighed.

“I-I…Y-You’re just…” He trailed off, blinked hard, and took a deep breath before continuing, “Y-you’re r-really close…”

Your pen paused mid-stroke. That tiny smile flickered again across your lips–mischievous, but not unkind.

“So that’s what your fidgeting is about, hm?” You asked, cocking your head just slightly as if inspecting him from a new angle. “All this tension just because I’m close?” You dragged the tip of the pen lightly across the paper again–nothing dramatic, just a line to keep your hand busy while you watched him melt.

Bob opened his mouth–probably to deny it–but all he managed was a shaky breath and another glance down. His fists had tightened on the cushion again, knuckles white, like the couch was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You followed his gaze and saw the way his fingers were digging into the fabric.

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, soft and playful:

“You know…” Your voice dropped to a purr as your eyes flicked back to his, “You could put them on my hips. I promise it’d be better than the poor old cushion.”

Bob inhaled sharply–like the suggestion itself was enough to knock the wind out of him. His eyes met yours again, wide and caught between wonder and panic.

“I–I d-don’t wanna mess this up,” He admitted in a hush, the words barely held together by breath. “I-I don’t wanna touch you wrong. Or–or make you uncomfortable. I j-just–”

You leaned in a fraction closer, your breath brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You won’t,” You whispered. “I promise.”

Then, slower, softer, like an invitation dressed as a tease:

“I want you to. That’s kind of the reason why I climbed on top of you in the first place…” Your hands stayed steady on the sketchbook, but your thighs squeezed gently around him in reassurance. His hands twitched against the cushion again. He looked like a man at the edge of a precipice–equal parts terrified and desperate to fall.

You sighed softly–barely a sound–and lowered your pen to rest atop the sketchbook that still remained on his stomach. Your gaze flicked back down to his hands, which were back to being clenched into the cushion, as if it was going to save him from coming undone.

”Alright…I guess I’ll fix it myself.” You murmured, voice like velvet against his ears. Bob’s eyes darted up to yours, startled–uncertain–but he didn’t move, he just froze in his spot.

You reached for him slowly, deliberately, your fingertips brushing the air before touching down gently on the inside of each of his wrists. And the moment you made contact, something happened. His breath stuttered. His jaw tightened. He froze–not from fear, but from the overwhelming awareness of your skin on his. You were the first person to touch his hands in what felt like forever.

You curled your fingers around his wrists–carefully, tenderly–and lifted them. They didn’t fight you. If anything, they followed the motion like they were tethered to you by something deeper than bone. He watched, helpless and wide-eyed, as you guided his trembling hands up to your waist. The fabric of your robe was still damp, soft against his skin, and your body underneath was warm and alive and impossibly close.

And then–you placed his hands on you.

Right on the curve of your hips.

You didn’t let go right away. You kept your hands atop his, cradling them. Holding them in place like you were making sure they knew they belonged there. Like you were grounding him with something far more intimate than words.

Bob exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching instinctively. His thumbs flexed but didn’t dare move–not yet.

Your thumbs brushed over the backs of his hands in slow, gentle strokes. Tracing the veins. The bones. The skin that trembled under your touch. You could feel how warm his hands were. How careful. How desperately he was holding himself back.

Then you leaned forward, just a breath. Just enough.

And Bob tensed.

You saw it in the sharp tick of his jaw, the way the muscles there fluttered under his skin like wings struggling not to fly. His breath caught–again–and his eyes, wide and dark and searching, darted to yours.

Still, you didn’t speak.

You let the silence cradle you both, let the hush between your bodies fill with everything unsaid. The air was thick with heat, your knees snug around his hips, your chest nearly brushing his.

”Kiss me Bob…” The words were soft—barely above a whisper—but they hit him like a solar flare. No fanfare. No hesitation. Just truth. Raw and crystalline and glowing at the edges.

Bob’s breath stilled in his chest. His hands, still resting on your hips beneath your own, trembled like a leaf caught between seasons. His pulse roared in his ears. His jaw clenched tighter, the muscle jumping as he stared at you with wide, reverent eyes—like he wasn’t sure if you were real, or if his dreaming had finally bled into the waking world.

You could feel it—the way his fingers curled just slightly against you. The way his breath shuddered as it passed your cheek. His lips were parted, damp and trembling. And when your nose brushed his—when the air between you seemed to collapse under the weight of wanting—his eyes fluttered closed for a second like the moment alone might undo him.

He was so warm beneath your touch.

So human.

And so afraid to move.

Your hands slid from atop his fingertips gliding up his wrists, along the crook of his elbows, to the dip in his shoulders—slow and patient, grounding him inch by inch. He followed your motion like a tethered thing, like a current pulled toward a shore he didn’t dare believe in. You cupped his face gently–just the edges of his jaw, your thumbs brushing along the sharp lines softened by awe–and tilted his gaze back to yours.

“Only if you want to of course…” You whispered, breath ghosting across his lips like the first touch of dawn.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He was still unraveling–thread by golden thread–under the weight of the moment. The way you were looking at him was unbearable in its tenderness. Like he was beautiful. Like you were waiting for him. Like he was safe here, in your hands.

“I do,” He breathed, and it was hoarse with want. “I–I’ve w-wanted to for…for so long, I–”

You silenced him with nothing but the brush of your forehead against his. Close. Closer. Until the world fell away and there was only breath. Skin. Heat. Until the tip of your nose nudged his again, teasing him, beckoning him to come closer.

He leaned in like a man surrendering–like he was handing himself over with shaking hands and an open heart.

And when Bob kissed you, it wasn’t practiced or perfect. It wasn’t confident or slick. It was slow. Soft. Starved. Like his lips had never truly known what they were for until they found yours.

The kiss started as a brush–barely there. Like the whisper of silk against skin. His breath trembled as it left him, catching on yours, and then he kissed you again. Firmer. Deeper. Still slow, still trembling, but real. Like he meant it. Like he needed it.

His lips were warm and unsure, moving with reverent caution, and you could feel it–the aching restraint thrumming through every fiber of his body. He wasn’t holding you like he wanted to devour you–he was holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

You responded with a steadiness he couldn’t manage, your mouth tilting gently into his, coaxing him closer. You kissed him like you knew he could take more, like you knew he wanted to be undone if you did it slowly enough.

Your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the soft, messy strands at the back of his head. He gasped into your mouth at the feeling—barely a sound, more like a breath catching on something too big to hold. And then you did it again–fingernails grazing his scalp, thumbs sweeping across the hinges of his jaw–and his whole body gave the faintest shudder beneath you.

He whimpered–soft and broken and so full of want it made heat bloom low in your stomach.

You opened your mouth against his just slightly, inviting him in–and Bob kissed you harder. Still careful, but with a new desperation under the surface. Like something in him had finally snapped loose. His hands, once trembling against your hips, flexed and pulled you in tighter. Not greedy–yearning. Anchoring. Like if he pressed you close enough, he could finally quiet whatever storm had lived inside his chest since the day he met you.

When your tongue touched his–soft, tentative–he gasped like he wasn’t prepared for the heat of it. His whole body stiffened beneath you, then melted so quickly you almost collapsed into him. The kiss deepened by inches, by instinct, until it was slow-burning and sultry, hot and aching and so much.

Your lips parted only slightly, breath mingling with his, and you murmured something soft against his mouth–something he couldn’t even register, because the sound of you speaking into his kiss lit a fuse inside him he didn’t know he carried.

He kissed you again, and again. And again.

Each one a little longer. A little slower. A little more desperate.

Your robe shifted with every move–slipping just a touch more from your shoulder, brushing across the backs of his hands, baring more skin to his touch. His thumbs skated over your waist now, unthinking, and slow. As if he was mapping you. Memorizing you.

You broke the kiss with a whisper-soft sigh, eyes half-lidded, your lips still brushing his.

“Still feel like you don’t know what you’re doing?” You asked, breathless and smug and sweet.

Bob didn’t answer right away. His mouth chased yours again, stealing another kiss that was softer than the last. Sweeter. Like a thank you.

“I feel like I c-could kiss you forever,” He said, and his voice cracked beautifully on the last word.

You smiled at him. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want you to stop.”

1K notes · View notes

ari-ana-bel-la · 2 months ago

Note

Could you write a Lando with a toddler daughter, where they're doing fan stage, and Yn runs on stage asking for a snack and ends up staying to build the Legos they have for challenges

Fan Stage

The summer sun was high over the paddock, the roar of excitement echoing from the packed fan stage ahead. Lando stepped onto the platform, his usual cheeky grin spreading as he waved at the sea of fans. Oscar followed closely behind, a wide smile on his face as the crowd erupted into cheers.

“Hellooo!” Lando called into the mic, drawing out the ‘o’ like he always did, making the fans giggle.

Oscar leaned into his mic. “Hi, everyone! Thanks for coming out today—it’s hot, huh?”

“Too hot,” Lando said dramatically, tugging at the collar of his papaya team shirt. “I’m about two degrees from melting, but it’s worth it for you guys.”

The fans screamed louder, some holding up signs that read things like “LAN-DAD FOR PRESIDENT” and “OSCAR MARRY ME (please)” which Lando squinted at and chuckled.

They sat down on the tall stools, the bright orange and blue backdrop glowing behind them. On a small table to the side sat a pile of Lego bricks—the usual fan challenge. Build something in ten minutes. Fastest wins. Lando always cheated by just building a wall and declaring it “modern art.”

As they were halfway through answering questions, Lando turned slightly at the sound of tiny feet pounding up the steps behind them.

“Daddy!”

Lando’s eyes widened, twisting around just in time to see a small whirlwind sprinting toward him—messy curls bouncing, a glittery McLaren cap slightly askew on her head, and a pink stuffed animal clutched in one hand.

“Yn?” he laughed, instantly standing and crouching to catch her as she barreled into him.

“I’m hungry,” she whined dramatically, burying her face in his chest.

A chorus of “Awww!” rippled through the crowd as fans caught sight of her. Phones were already up, recording, capturing every second of the sweet chaos.

Oscar burst out laughing. “She’s got perfect comedic timing.”

Lando lifted Yn up into his arms and turned back to the audience. “Sorry guys, brief intermission. Apparently snack time takes priority over, uh, global fan engagement.”

Yn looked out at the crowd with wide brown eyes and gave a shy wave.

More “awwws.”

“She’s so cute!” someone yelled.

Another held up a sign they quickly scribbled on: “GIVE YN A SNACK OR WE RIOT!”

Oscar read it and nearly fell off his stool laughing.

Lando gently set Yn down near the Lego table. “You wanna hang out here for a bit, bubba?”

“Can I build?” she asked, already reaching for a bright blue brick.

“Of course you can,” Lando smiled, brushing her curls back with his fingers.

She plopped herself cross-legged on the stage, directly in front of Lando’s feet, humming softly to herself as she started building with pure toddler determination.

“Okay,” Lando said, chuckling into the mic, “you all now have front-row seats to what my living room looks like 90% of the time.”

Oscar leaned in toward the audience. “She’s already better than Lando at building.”

“I heard that,” Lando muttered, a grin tugging at his lips as he absently stroked Yn’s hair while answering the next fan question.

“Lando, how’s it being a dad on the road?” a fan shouted.

Lando’s gaze softened, glancing down at the tiny head now tilted in deep concentration, tongue poking out slightly as she tried to connect two oddly shaped pieces.

“It’s… amazing. Hard sometimes. There is a lot of packing, a scarily huge number of Barbies, and I know every episode of Bluey by heart now. But she’s my favourite travel buddy,” he said. “And she’s got a VIP pass to everything.”

Oscar nodded, glancing at Yn. “She makes the paddock like, ten times happier.”

“She’s our little team boss,” Lando added, smirking. “Tells the engineers when I need juice and gives me hugs before quali. I mean… who else gets that kind of support?”

More cheering. Someone held up a sign that read: “TEAM YN > EVERYONE ELSE” in glittery purple.

“Honestly, true,” Oscar said, showing the sign to the cameras.

Yn, still focused, suddenly raised a hand. “Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I need the square one. The green square one.”

Lando squatted beside her, quickly rummaging through the pile until he found it and handed it to her like it was a precious gem.

“There you go, boss.”

“Thank you,” she said, sticking her tongue out slightly as she snapped it into place.

“Perfectionist,” Lando whispered to Oscar with a proud smile.

After about twenty minutes—far longer than either of them anticipated spending on stage—Lando finally glanced at the time and winced.

“I think we have to wrap it up, unfortunately,” he told the crowd.

There was a collective groan from the fans, followed by someone yelling, “Let Yn host the next Q&A!”

“Tempting,” Lando laughed, picking up Yn with practiced ease. “She’d probably do a better job.”

“Can I take the Legos?” Yn whispered sleepily against his shoulder.

Oscar stepped in, gently scooping the semi-formed Lego castle. “Don’t worry, we’re bringing it with us. I got it. Sir Lego Security at your service.”

“Thanks, Oskie,” she mumbled, her eyes already fluttering shut as she clung to her dad’s shirt.

Fans waved and cheered as the trio made their way off stage—Lando holding his sleepy daughter tightly against his chest, Oscar following with the Lego creation carefully balanced in his arms.

Once they were off-stage and a little more out of view, Lando looked over at Oscar and grinned.

“Think we just made Yn the most famous person in the paddock.”

Oscar chuckled. “Mate, I think she just stole the whole show.”

Lando looked down at Yn, whose breathing had evened out, her tiny hand still gripping his shirt.

“She always does,” he said softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

2K notes · View notes

andypantsx3 · 7 months ago

Text

BY THE BOOK : MIDORIYA IZUKU X READER

SUMMARY: When your pro hero boyfriend comes home to find you studying, he suddenly takes a great interest in helping out. You find his methods... questionable. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft, hysterical literature (reading out loud while sexually stimulated), pro hero deku, deku still has ofa, support tech grad student reader, slight intelligence kink, gn + afab reader, cunnilingus, established relationship, aged up characters, fluff (3k) NOTES: Hi guys! I have been in survival mode as of late and the writing has been slow going; my sincerest apologies for how long it’s taking me to burn down my @ficsforgaza backlog. But I finally had the time & energy on my hands this weekend to work on this one and I had such a blast!! I hope I’m not too rusty—and if I am, I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it regardless lol. Love you and thank you always for your patience. Happy Holidays!!

Sometimes, you thought you could tell your boyfriend was near, even before you heard his key in the lock.

It was something to do with his power, you’d always suspected—as a support engineer unduly interested in other people’s capabilities, you’d spent hundreds of hours turning it over in your head. It was the unnatural immensity of other people’s powers, you thought, pulling and coiling just beneath the surface of Izuku’s skin. In close proximity, after prolonged use, its presence felt like a shiver up the back of your neck.

You felt the barest hint of it now, an unsettled feeling creeping into the marrow of your bones, and you sat up on the couch just as you heard the scratch of Izuku’s keys at the door.

One For All fit cleanly into Izuku’s own unwavering intensity somehow, like the last piece of his puzzle. Though one would certainly never think so looking at him as he spilled through the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, all bright eyes, sweetly angelic features, and a riot of wild green curls. He looked windswept from the biting winter breeze. He also looked too kind to be carrying the sort of power he did—too sweet and eager and lovely.

“Look what the wind blew in,” you grinned at him over the back of the couch, after assessing he was well. Your eyes tracked the sinuous movement of those broad shoulders as he yanked his mouthguard over his head, the flex and pull of his bicep as he hung it beside the door. He was moving without pause, no sign of injury or muscle strain , and his suit was intact. Ordinarily you didn’t mind if there was a bit of shredding about the abs as long as he came back to you whole and hale, but in the winter you didn’t like him wandering about risking the chance of frostbite.

Your heart fluttered when Izuku returned your smile with one of his own, so beautiful and bright, chasing away the cold he’d tracked in like a warm sliver of sun.

“Lots of small, easy fights today?” You guessed, judging from his intact suit but clear whiff of power about him.

Izuku scrubbed a hand through that riot of curls, exposing the reddened shell of a cold ear. “I only had to use blackwhip a couple of times,” he said as he shouldered the door closed behind him, the muscle of his thighs flexing enticingly as he stepped out of his boots.

You gestured at the pot of soup you’d left warming on the stove, and the veritable pile of crusty bread beside it. Warmth and carbs, exactly what you would have wanted if you were a pro hero fresh off a long day of patrolling in the snow.

Izuku’s eyes fixed on it with an obliging amount of interest, and he almost tripped over himself in the genkan in his haste to get to the kitchen. “I love you,” you heard him say, muffled through a mouthful of bread, heard the clatter of the silverware drawer and a bowl being placed on the counter.

You smiled and turned back to the book in your lap, a particularly dry, knotty text on robotic imitation learning that had had your eyes drifting closed for the better part of an hour. It was the last you’d need to get through for your Wearable Technologies graduate course, and something you were deeply interested in incorporating into your design practice. You could train a piece of equipment on how an individual pro hero moved and deployed their quirk, and use predictive modeling to deploy assistance functionalities within milliseconds if you got it right—such as immediate cooling in pro hero Shouto’s temperature vest the moment he ignited an arm.

The implementation was going to be so cool—but the theory was so mind numbing.

You felt the couch sink in beside your feet, and Izuku peered interestedly at the title in your lap.

“Introduction to Robotic Imitation Learning,” he echoed, and you could hear the note of excitement in his voice. You suppressed a fond smile, knowing he was already thinking through the same applications you had—he was just as much of a nerd as you were.

“Introduction to Snoozing and Napping,” you grumbled, turning back to your page. “There are only so many words on the Kalman filter framework a brain can handle before the human mind shuts itself down.”

Izuku hummed in interest around a spoonful of soup, propping himself up against your leg. The exterior of his suit was still cool from the outside, and he groaned with relief from the warmth of your skin, even as you hissed at the chill.

You knew he wanted you to go on, so you generalized for him. “It’s an algorithm used for robotic motion planning—you not only take measurements of the thing you want to model but you account for uncertainties to predict the probability that something is going to happen.”

Izuku nodded, taking another spoonful of soup, gesturing for you to go on.

You summoned up the willpower to explain joint probability distribution, pleased when Izuku easily managed to follow—he’d always been a quick study, especially of anything that could be employed in the service of heroics. You’d long thought if he hadn’t been gifted his quirk, he would be an insane support engineer.

He managed to finish his entire bowl of soup in the time it took you to explain, and housed another two slices of buttered bread with the sort of alacrity you’d only ever seen in pro heroes and professional athletes, making you smile while you spoke.

His spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl as he set them aside on the coffee table, and he hooked his chin over your knees as you finished explaining. In the setting sun from your windows he looked especially lovely, the kind, angular planes of his face brushed in gold, softening the spots of his freckles.

His eyes were especially bright, the way they always were when something in particular had caught his interest, and he smiled at you again over the tops of your knee caps.

“I admire how smart you are,” he told you, in the simple, straightforward way he always gave out compliments. It was like a shot to the heart every time, and you could feel your face warm with the praise even after years of receiving similar compliments.

You reflexively flapped a dismissive hand. “Not smart enough to have internalized it all! I have mostly been falling asleep to it,” you promised him.

He tilted his head, a green curl falling into his eyes. “I know you won’t have a problem when you’re awake.”

You shifted your legs with embarrassment, and a long fingered hand came up to cup the front of your thigh, as Izuku turned more fully towards you. You could feel the warm, hard planes of his chest against your shins, the line of his jumpsuit’s zipper pressing insistently just below your knee.

“Gotta try to impress you somehow,” you joked, your skin prickling as Izuku’s fingers absent-mindedly drew a pattern across your thigh. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of the leggings you’d lounged around in all day, the chill finally chased away from his skin now that he’d come inside and warmed up.

“You do impress me,” he said in his soft, gentle tone. Which made your cheeks and nose burn hotter.

You knew you did, and the steady faith Izuku had in the people around him was one of your favorite things about him. It still made you feel like a middle schooler with a crush to think about, though, the intensity of your feelings too much for one body to handle.

“I will study hard to live up to your faith in me,” you promised, unable to help the goofy smile you knew you were giving him.

Izuku’s chin shifted against the tops of your knees, and he pressed his mouth to the knob of your left one, leaving a smiling kiss. “Tell me more?” he asked, fingers still sliding softly over your thigh.

“I’ll read it to you as I go, then,” you said, turning back to the brick of a tome, propping it up more firmly on your stomach as you adjusted yourself against the couch arm. Izuku’s eyes watched you over the top of the pages, that emerald gaze tracking your face closely.

“‘The algorithm works via a two-phase process: a prediction phase and an update phase’,” you began, trying to turn your attention away from Izuku and back to the text. “‘In the prediction phase, the Kalman filter produces estimates of the current state variables, including their uncertainties. Once the outcome of the next measurement (necessarily corrupted with some error, including random noise) is observed, these estimates are updated using a weighted average, with more weight given to estimates with greater certainty.’”

Izuku’s long fingers traced firmer lines across your thighs, almost like he was taking notes. He layered another kiss along the line of your knee, eyes glittering at you as you read.

“‘The algorithm is recursive,’” you continued, “‘It can operate in real time, using only the present input measurements and the state calculated previously and its uncertainty matrix; no additional past information is required.’”

You almost jumped as Izuku’s mouth trailed lower, into the space between your knees, leaving kisses along your inner thigh. His fingers gently pulled one thigh away to make space for him in between, and you cleared your throat, trying to return to the text at hand.

“‘Optimality of Kalman filtering assumes that errors have a normal–that is, Gaussian–distribution,’” you read on. “‘The following assumptions are made about random processes: Physical random phenomena may be thought of as due to primary random sources exciting dynamic systems. The primary sources are assumed to be independent gaussian random processes with zero mean; the dynamic systems will be linear.’”

Izuku let out a soft breath, insinuating himself further between your thighs. Your own breath came out a little uneven as he bent over you, mouth tracking dangerously towards the inseam of your leggings.

You paused, but Izuku fixed you with a look of his slightly-darkened eyes. “Please—keep reading,” he said, his tone a little lower than it had been a minute ago.

You swallowed in shocked understanding, skin tingling. You felt yourself nod, as Izuku’s fingers strayed to the waist of your pants, dipping below the band.

You let him slowly peel your leggings down, your underwear with them, adjusting as needed to make it easy for him, even as you tried to return your attention to your textbook.

“‘Regardless of Gaussianity, however, if the process and measurement covariances are known, then the Kalman filter is the best possible linear estimator in the minimum mean-square-error sense,’” you quoted, nearly squeaking when Izuku pressed his mouth to your hip, his curls tickling the skin of your belly. His hands gripped either side of your thighs, palms square and rough against your skin, and you tried not to shiver with the feeling.

“Um—‘Although there may be better nonlinear estimators’,” you said, then nearly jumped out of your skin when Izuku pressed his mouth to the core of you, only the strength of his grip stopping you from accidentally kicking him in surprise.

“Oh my g—uh! It—um—‘It is a common misconception perpetuated in the literature that the Kalman filter cannot be rigorously applied unless all noise processes are assumed to be Gaussian,’” you managed, before your cut off into a groan as Izuku layered a hot, sweet kiss over you, tongue dipping carefully between your folds. “Ah-–Izuku—”

Izuku petted a thumb gently over the top of your thigh to show he was listening, even as he swiped his tongue over you again, a long, firm stroke that had your thighs flexing in his hold. He laved over your clit, sucking ever so slightly, and your grip almost tore the edge of your textbooks as it tightened.

“Keep going,” he urged briefly, then did it again, punching a groan out of you.

“Extensions—oh—‘Extensions and generalizations of the method have also been developed, such as the extended Kalman filter and the unscented Kalman filter which work on nonlinear systems,’” you read on, voice shooting up nearly into a squeal when two of Izuku’s long, firm fingers pressed into you, as his mouth moved over you again.

“Ah! Oh my god—the—um, the basis—-” you said, breath growing short. Izuku’s fingers unerringly found the spot inside you that made you twist in his grip with the ease of long practice, and his jaw worked as he kissed you so shockingly filthily. You could feel something already starting to build up behind your navel, a fluttery lightness, an insatiable insistence on more.

“‘The basis a hidden Markov model—oh, fuck—such that the state space of the latent variables is continuous and all latent and observed variables have–ah!--Gaussian distributions,’’’ you recited, your voice tripping up further into a register that sounded more like begging than reading.

Izuku’s fingers worked you, long and thick and perfect inside you, as his tongue drew unrelenting circles around your clit. Stars seemed to spark in your vision, and your eyes squeezed shut, losing your place on the page as your hips flexed into his face. You felt suddenly very floaty and lightheaded, and not at all in a position to keep going.

Still, you tried to refocus your attention.

“‘K–Kalman filtering has been used successfully in—oh—multi-sensor fusion—ah, ah!--and distributed sensor networks–fuck, please, Izuku—to develop distributed or consensus Kalman f-filtering,’” you said, your tone nearly a cry.

Izuku groaned softly, sucking gently as his fingers curled inside you. It made your veins spark under your skin, your legs shaking in Izuku’s hands. You abandoned your grip on your book to seize the arm of the couch, clawing desperately at the fabric.

“Please, Izuku,” you cried, hips bucking towards his mouth.

The book tumbled off your stomach but you hardly noticed, gaze refocusing on the way his eyelashes fluttered as he licked you. His fingers played gently within you, a maddening press that was simultaneously too much and not enough, and his other hand came up to slide under your sweater, plucking gently at your nipple.

You lost yourself to the feeling—caught between the mind-melting curl of his fingers, the delicate suction of his mouth, and the careful pinch of your nipple. A delicious heat curled through you, waves of unbearable pleasure, and you could hear yourself babbling nonsense—garbled syllables of Izuku’s name, and every entreaty you could think of, a hundred thousands mores and oh pleases.

Izuku abandoned your nipple to pull you more firmly against him with a strong arm curled under your thigh, pressing you even harder into his mouth.

You muffled a scream in the sleeve of your sweater as he sucked you harder, tongue laving over you in loving strokes. Only his terrible strength held you down as you writhed beneath him, and then his fingers twisted in a way that had your vision whiting out—and you were suddenly thrown out over the edge of your pleasure.

Izuku licked you through it as you squirmed and begged and cried out his name, your climax seeming to last for eons.

You were panting hard when you finally slumped into the cushions of your couch, the ceiling seeming to swim in and out of focus before your eyes. When you gained enough control of your body again you looked down at Izuku, finding him watching you with a satisfied, almost shy curl to his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, emerald gaze glittering with sincerity. “You’re so smart.”

Impossibly you felt your heart swell with even more love for him, and you seized his shoulder, dragging him up over you so you could kiss his mouth. The taste of yourself on him was embarrassing yet thrilling, and you petted a pleased hand through Izuku’s wild mess of curls as you kissed him.

“Well you are amazing,” you told him, swiping a thumb over his cheek fondly, smoothing over his freckles. A gorgeous watercolor of pink washed over his cheeks and nose at the proclamation, and you could hear his fingers flex in the cushion beside your head.

The sight of him flushed and waiting over you like another small something inside of you, like a pilot light, and you let your mouth pull into a wry grin.

“I hope you know I learned nothing though,” you said casually, your plan for your next steps already forming in your head. You let a hand trail carefully down Izuku’s flank, tracking towards his waist. “I think maybe I might need a few rounds for it to really sink in.”

Izuku’s ears went red against the green of his hair, and you felt your smile widen. “Maybe you could read it to me this time?” you asked, guiding him to roll under you, retrieving your book from the floor as you did so.

You settled yourself on the tops of Izuku’s thighs, feeling the hard press of him against your core, as you placed your textbook into his waiting hands.

Izuku’s answering smile was all the permission you needed. You directed him to start from the beginning of the chapter, and he did so in that soft, lilting tone of his you so loved. And then your fingers trailed up to the zipper at his collar.

It was time to return the favor—wholeheartedly.

REFERENCES: Kalman Filtering (Wikipedia) I took the passages our Reader recited from here because I do not actually understand Kalman filtering at all and could not organically come up with feasible text for her to read through. Sorry in advance to the author of this page lol.

#deku x reader #izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x you #deku x y/n #bnha x reader #fics for gaza #izuku x you

2K notes · View notes