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BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — age gap tension (reader 19-20, Rafe 24), military hierarchy power imbalance, male gaze/possessive thoughts, internalized misogyny, explicit objectification, obsession, voyeurism, pervy male POV, past casual sex (implied), predator/prey dynamic, male masterbation

You’re the last one off the van. That’s the first thing Rafe notices — and it sticks.

Everyone else spills out fast, loud, sunburnt. Military kids, seasoned family, spouses with babies already on their hips. But you?

You climb down slowly. Both hands on the strap of your pink bag like you’re worried it’ll slip away from you. You look around like everything is unfamiliar. Unsteady.

You’re not in uniform. You’re in a pressed blouse and ballet flats, legs bare beneath a soft little skirt. Your water bottle is clear and full of pastel-colored fruit. You’re chewing pink gum. Your lip gloss catches the sun.

And Rafe’s dick twitches.

He should look away. He knows that. He should walk the other direction, mind his business, keep his hands clean.

Because you don’t belong here. Not in a place like this. Not on a base like this.

And sure as hell not near someone like him.

“Who’s that?” he asks without taking off his sunglasses.

His buddy glances up from the truck bed. “That’s the Captain’s daughter.”

Rafe doesn’t move.

His jaw tightens. His arms are crossed over his chest, forearms thick with sweat-slick muscle, dog tags clinking against his skin. But his eyes stay glued to you. Watching. Tracking.

“Looks like she’s never even been off a damn sidewalk,” his buddy mutters with a chuckle. “She probably cries if she breaks a nail.”

Rafe doesn’t laugh. He barely even smirks. He just keeps staring.

“You think she’s ever been kissed?” he asks finally. The question is low, quiet. Serious.

This time his buddy laughs for real. “Jesus, man.”

But Rafe isn’t joking.

You don’t look like someone who’s been kissed. You look like someone who still gets tucked in. You’re trailing behind your father now, hugging your arms, blinking up at the sun like it personally offended you. You look lost. Soft.

Exactly the kind of thing Rafe likes.

But unlike the other girls — the ones who begged to ride him before he’d even zipped his pants — you don’t look like you’d know what to do with him.

He’s not used to girls like that. Not anymore.

Most of the women around here come to him already seasoned — lonely wives, bored daughters, ex-soldiers-turned-waitresses who’d rather suck off a grunt in a back alley than go home to their boyfriends. He’s used to fast, nasty, no strings. He has a box under his bunk full of phone numbers on receipts, bar napkins, lip prints.

He hasn’t learned a single one of their names.

But you?

You're new.

You're untouched.

And Rafe Cameron has always had a problem with temptation.

You’ve got a little notebook in your arms now, hugging it like it’s precious. You nod along to whatever your father is saying. You’re not listening — Rafe can tell — but you’re smiling anyway.

He watches your mouth move.

Watches your hands fidget with the hem of your skirt.

Watches your legs press together when a truck passes too fast and kicks up dust.

And all he can think about is how fast he could break you.

You wouldn’t even see it coming.

That’s the sickest part. You’re so used to being safe. Being supervised. Being sheltered. You’d think you were in control the whole time — until his hand was around your throat and you were coming so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He bets you still sleep with the door cracked.

He bets you say “gosh” and “oh my gosh” and chew on the ends of your pens.

He bets you’ve never had a guy pull your panties down and say, “you’re mine now, baby. say thank you.”

You’ll learn.

Later, when the sun’s setting and you’re sitting cross-legged on the porch with a lemonade and your pink notebook open on your lap, Rafe walks by with a cigarette between his teeth.

You don’t even look at him. Just scribble something in loopy cursive, your legs swinging where they hang off the step. You’ve got some song playing in your earbuds, too loud and sugary. The sound of a girl who’s never done anything wrong in her life.

Rafe watches your reflection in a window for a long time after he passes.

He doesn’t even smoke. He just needed a reason to linger.

Back in the barracks that night, he’s wide awake.

His room is silent. Fan spinning slow above him, boots tossed to the floor, sweat still drying on his back.

His hand is wrapped around his cock, but it’s not about the release.

It’s the control. The ownership.

He thinks about you saying his name — sweet, unsure, a little breathy. He imagines how you’d gasp when he grabs your face. He imagines the pink gloss smeared across your cheek.

He doesn’t even touch himself most of the time.

He just lets the ache burn a hole in his gut.

Because he knows he can have you.

He just hasn’t decided when.

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good morning to everyone who didn’t vote for that ugly rotting corpse in the white house the rest of you can choke i guess

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stop trying to make intimacy casual. intimacy will never be casual.

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that one Blade Runner scene but make it angsty Landoscar

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oscar's drawings from when he was a kid include an entirely black sheet of paper and some animals who had angry faces "because they didn't want to be painted" 😭😭😭😭😭

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peak f1

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these are KILLING me

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"sorry"

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any visions of maneater!reader and womanizer!lando yet? that'd be so hot omg 😩

You guys shouldn’t put such images in my head, because look what happens. Look!!

𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖𝗦

✦ None of them is used to being outplayed, which makes their relationship a constant battle of control.

✦ The sexual tension is insane. I’m talking arguments turning into make-up sex, and every flirtatious glance is seen as a challenge.

✦ They’re toxic for anyone else, but somehow they thrive in each other’s fire. What they have it’s fueled by a chaotic chemistry, and it wouldn’t work with other people, because the main thing that bonds them is a mutual obsession.

✦ Talking about mutual obsession, both are addicted to the game, and neither of them is willing to lose. Their version of love is possessive, passionate, and always a little crazy.

𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗖 | the ultimate power couple

✦ In public, they are constantly teasing each other, just enough to rile the other up.

✦ Using jealousy as a foreplay is basically their love language.

✦ From the outside, they look like they’re made for each other, always immaculate, matching in power looks; they look like sex, and everyone knows it.

𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗘 | everything is a competition

✦ Sex isn’t soft. I’m seeing scratches down backs, maybe even broken furniture, handprints on thighs. They leave marks like trophies.

✦ From choking to spanking to edging, their bedroom is a war zone. His hand is constantly around her neck while telling her she’s his; she bites his lip until it bleeds, then rides him until he begs.

✦ The control games are strong. She’ll edge him for hours just because he pissed her off. He’ll cancel her orgasm mid-session and leave her soaked and irritated, only to return later and wreck her all over again.

𝗘𝗫𝗧𝗥𝗔 𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗖𝗘

✦ Lando is a starved man, no matter how many times he eats in a day. She makes sure he always has his mouth full (because she likes it more when he shuts the fuck up).

✦ When he does talk, it’s usually him asking existential questions 🤔💭:

“Who’s cock gets you this wet?”, when she’s stuttering, moaning, and lost in it.

“You think anyone else could fuck you like this?”, right before slamming into her harder, just to prove his point.

“How many times did you think about me today?”, while he’s finger-fucking her open.

✦ When the power switches, she makes sure to let him know, by riding him while mocking his ego. “Thought you were the big bad womanizer. Look at you now, crying like a baby for me.”

✦ Dare I say... threesomes? Because they both get off more on jealousy than on the third party? Let that marinate.

𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘

✦ Waking up at noon, bodies tangled, hungover and still high off last night’s sex. She’s wearing his shirt and is covered in love marks; he’s shirtless, displaying his own punishments.

✦ Every mundane activity ends in something filthy.

✦ Their fights are legendary... until they end up pinned to a wall, fucking like it’s the last time.

✦ They do spoil each other; he’s always buys her stuff and she makes sure to say thank you by leaving him breathless.

𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗚𝗔𝗠𝗘?

✦ Probably not. Mostly because they are two people who are way too similar and, in time, the fire will consume them both. Finding their madness mirrored in each other will eventually make them go from love to hate.

𝗕𝗢𝗡𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗢𝗦

✦ The Ride Back Home: after that intense public teasing, Lando will make sure she’s paying for her recklessness, and drives the entire time with two fingers buried inside her. “I love this car, so make a mess and I’ll make you clean it with your mouth.”

✦ Post-race Rage Fuck: missing a podium or after he’s DNFed for some reason. “Didn’t win, but at least I get to fuck a prize.”

✦ Family Yacht Party: she’s bent over the railing with Lando behind her, fucking her slow while people are chilling below deck. “You’re so cockdrunk you’d let me fuck you in front of your parents, hm?”

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boo

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in honor of montreal week, let’s take a moment to remember last year when haas decided to put on ex wets at the start of the race and charge to the the front of the field just for the shits and giggles

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And a reminder

FUCK ICE

FUCK DONALD TRUMP AND HIS ENITRE ADMINISTRATION

FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

NO ONE IS ILLEGAL ON STOLEN LAND

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max horsepower

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alex albon every weekend for some reason:

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singapore ‘24 george you will always be famous to me

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Williams mechanics looking at the shared Excel spreadsheet trying to figure out if they have a spare engine cover

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hello new sketch :0