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theemporium · 9 months ago

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[4.1k] when a last minute team meeting takes them to amsterdam, lando decides to take the opportunity to see what his teammate is like under the influence. (smut)

part two to this blurb that spiralled into landoscar smut somehow

It happened in Amsterdam.

With a new sponsor on the rise and the team desperate to lock down the deal before the new season started, Lando and Oscar were asked to fly out to the Netherlands a few weeks before the car launch. It put a small damper on both men’s winter break plans, the last few days of freedom they had before they dived into work mode for the new season—but ultimately, neither boy complained.

Oscar had felt bad for having to cancel your plans, knowing how excited you were about planning a few days for the two of you to spend some time alone together—away from the world, away from everyone. In all honesty, it was what he was looking forward to the most. He knew Formula One was different, that he would be busier than he ever had been in his life, but it never prepared him to be away from you for so long.

So yeah, he was pretty fucking bummed about having to cut the trip out of his plans but he invited you with him to Amsterdam in hopes the two of you could make the best out of a bad situation.

After all, Zak had only wanted them for a day or two, to just sit in meetings and play up some charm and confidence to give the sponsor the last push they needed to sign the deal with McLaren.

And, by some luck you swore was from a higher power, the deal had been negotiated and signed after a very long, tedious meeting.

But Oscar didn’t complain, he couldn’t complain when it meant that he would have more time alone with you in a country he never really had the chance to explore beyond the race tracks and most famous sites.

It just seemed like Lando had a similar idea.

“I got the perfect place to check out,” Lando insisted as they walked out of the busy office building they had been stuck in for the last few hours. “Martin recommended it, said it was insane and a necessity to check out when we were in the city.”

Oscar tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, but the boy’s words had him intrigued. “And he’s never taken you before?”

“Said it was best to visit in the off-season,” Lando replied, and the smile spread across his face did little to reassure Oscar’s suspicions about the mysterious place. “Bring your girl too! She will love it, Oscar. You both will.”

He raised his brows. “And you’re not going to tell me?”

“Be a little adventurous, Piastri,” his teammate teased, lightly nudging his shoulder as they headed towards their team-appointed cars. “Dress nice. We leave at eight.”

“I haven’t even agreed to anything,” Oscar pointed out, but the Brit didn’t seem all too bothered as he waved his teammate off before climbing into his car.

Truthfully, it shouldn’t have surprised Oscar that you were up for the night out. Lando’s mysterious words intrigued you as much as they intrigued him, and you both trusted Lando enough that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drag you somewhere dodgy. Hopefully.

So, Oscar tried to push away the voice in the back of his head that said he should have asked more questions. He was a Formula One driver, he was used to control, he was used to always being the one in charge of his own fate. It felt weird to leave everything in the hands of Lando, even if he trusted his teammate more than he did with most people in his life.

“Relax,” you murmured to him as you stepped between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders as he waited for Lando to message he was waiting downstairs. “It’s one night.”

“I know, I’m excited,” Oscar answered honestly as his hands rested on the back of your thighs, trying not to think about the pretty, little dress you had slipped on for the night. He could have sworn he had never seen it before. A part of him was tempted to cancel the whole night and stay in to truly appreciate the dress. “It’s just the idea of Lando being in charge of everything…”

“Hm, you say that as though you don’t worship the ground he walks on,” you teased, smiling in amusement at the way his cheeks burned pink.

“I do not!” Oscar grumbled, but he was smiling back. “Okay, I do a little. But it’s Lando…he’s my first teammate in Formula One. He is just—”

“I know,” you murmured with a smile, leaning down to peck his lips. “And he cares about you. So relax and trust the fact that he was excited to check this place out with you.”

The place in question—the one that Martin insisted Lando needed to check out—turned out to be something straight out of a Bond movie.

Oscar hadn’t even managed to catch the name when Lando had muttered it to their driver, a giddy smile on his face as he turned back to look at you and Osacr in the back seat. He was excited, buzzing in his seat as he rambled off about random topics could barely even keep up with as he watched the city pass by in a blink through the window.

It was an exclusive club, not very well-known but a local treasure to those who knew of it. One of those places in movies where you knocked on a steel door and grumbled out a password. The kind of places that you expected to feel dodgy and cautious and like you were making the biggest mistake for stepping into the establishment. One of those places that two high-profile athletes should definitely never be caught in.

But Lando just turned to him, that stupidly huge grin on his face as he threw an arm over his shoulder and dragged him inside.

“Relax, Piastri, nobody is gonna care who you are in here!”

And honestly, the thought shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was to him.

But despite the many warnings he received about stepping up as a Formula One driver, Oscar never really wrapped his head around how famous he was. He had his fair share of internet spotlight on him throughout his career, he was used to being recognised every once in a while. But being a Formula One driver—a McLaren one, nonetheless—was a whole new level.

People stopped him in the streets and asked for photos. His face was blasted on huge posters in airports and cities he hadn’t visited before. Every aspect of his life was constantly under a microscope now. He had fans and followers all around the world, not just from his home country. He had a level of fame he couldn’t even conceptualise.

He had a level of fame he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

His whole life he just wanted to drive. He just wanted to get behind the wheel and achieve the dream he had been chasing after since he was a young boy. He just wanted to do what he loved, what he had been passionate about since before he could even remember.

It just came in a package deal with having more attention that he preferred, so the very idea of stepping foot into this exclusive club and nobody caring he was Oscar Piastri? Yeah, that sounded really fucking good.

Your arm wrapped around his biceps as you followed the Brit deeper into the club. It was dark—darker than a usual club—with red-tinted lights surrounding the place, adding a soft hue that was just enough to see a few steps ahead of you. The music thumped through the building, like the bass lived in the walls as it sounded throughout the place.

There was no bar. And the dance floor wasn’t really a dance floor. It felt like a stage, placed right in the middle of the room for people to ogle and observe. The whole place was surrounded in these dimly lit booths, large enough that they almost felt like a room.

The whole place was fucking weird and nothing like he expected.

And maybe that was what thrilled Oscar about the whole situation.

“Where do we order our drinks?” He had asked as they made their way to the far left corner, the furthest place from the door. The surrounding booths were empty but Lando still chose the one right in the corner as he flopped down onto the large cushioned sofas.

He watched as you and Oscar took the seat across from him as he grinned.

Oscar raised his brows.

“We are in fucking Amsterdam,” Lando snorted, something glinting in his eyes that even the dim, red lights seemed to pick up. “You don’t come here to get shit-faced drunk, Oscar.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You brought us to your dodgy club to get stoned?”

“Best in the city, baby,” Lando said, the smile on his face widening as he leaned back against the cushions, comfortable and settled with his legs spread a little wider than he usually would. “A little birdie told me Oscar was the kind of man you wanted to smoke with.”

Oscar raised his brows. “You sound surprised by that.”

“Let’s just say there aren’t many sides to you that I don’t think I’ve already seen,” Lando answered with a simple shrug before he raised his hand, catching the attention of a waitress Oscar didn’t even notice was walking by.

And maybe it was immoral. Or sneaky. Or whatever you wanted to call it.

Maybe it wasn’t the most truthful way to experience it but Lando Norris was a fucking curious man and the opportunity fell right into the palm of his hand. Because Logan Sargeant’s words had been ringing in his head like a loop since that night in the club, his eyes being opened to a whole new side of his younger teammate and he wanted to see more.

He wanted to know who Oscar Piastri was under all the layers he seemed to put up when he was sober.

And with the team dragging them to Amsterdam and Martin having told him about this club with the assurance that it suddenly wouldn’t be plastered over the front page in the morning that they were indulging in recreational drugs before the season started…well, Lando couldn’t just ignore it, could he?

It wasn’t noticeable at first and, for a brief moment, Lando wondered if the American was just pulling his leg about the whole situation. He wondered if Logan had just seen his shock to clingy, touchy Oscar when he was drunk and needy and thought it would be hilarious to just add fuel to the fire that night for his own amusement.

Because one joint in and Oscar seemed like he had hours ago in the meeting room, dressed in a fancy suit and looking slightly out of his comfort zone.

But time passed and the edges of his own brain began to feel fuzzy, and Lando started noticing it. He noticed the way Oscar seemed to squirm in his seat, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth as you took a drag from the joint. He noticed the way Oscar’s arm had dropped from around your shoulder to his hand firmly being placed on the bare skin of your thigh instead. He watched as Oscar pressed his body close to yours until there wasn’t an inch of your side that wasn’t touching his.

And then, Oscar was leaning in, his lips skimming past your ear and instantly dropping to your neck like he didn’t even care Lando was there.

Lando couldn’t even bring himself to feel all that guilty as he watched the display, something deep in his gut twisting in desire.

Your eyes fluttered shut as the boy’s lips latched onto your neck, a small sigh leaving your lips as he began to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His hand squeezed your thigh, gripping onto it like it was a lifeline as he continued to kiss lower and lower until his lips were brushing against the fabric of your dress.

“Oscar,” you murmured as you raised your hand, fingers threaded through his hair but the boy didn’t stop as he nosed the edge of your dress, his lips dangerously close to your cleavage.

“Want you,” the Aussie murmured, something like a whine sounding from the back of his throat as he nipped the fabric with his teeth. “Please.”

“Baby,” you choked out a noise, your eyes snapping open like you finally seemed to remember Lando was there. You felt breathless as your eyes met his, the dim light making it difficult to read the expression on his face but you could have sworn you saw something quite like desire in his gaze. “Lando is—”

“Not complaining,” the Brit finished for you, his voice a little rougher and even he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoking or the sight in front of him.

Oscar blinked as he lifted his head, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a little red. He looked at you before he shifted his eyes to Lando, his gaze dragging over his teammate. He should have removed himself from you, should have pulled his hand away and slid away—but he remained exactly where he was.

“Don’t be shy, Oscar,” Lando murmured, and something in the Aussie’s chest sparked. “You wanna touch your girl, then who am I to stop you from making her feel good.”

“You gonna watch?” Oscar asked.

“Do you want me to leave?” Lando retorted.

“No.”

Lando’s smirk slowly widened. “Yeah? You two gonna put on a little show for me?”

Oscar blinked before he turned to look at you. His whole body felt like it was on fire, like there were flames coursing through his veins and burning him alight and he never wanted to stop. But as he looked at you, eyes glossy or not, one word from you and he would stop this whole thing, regardless of his own feelings on the matter.

You were his first priority. You were always his first priority.

“You wanna, baby?” He murmured, just low enough for it to only be heard by the two of you.

“I think,” you swallowed thickly as your eyes traced over your boyfriend’s face, as the bubbling desire and strong urge to clench your legs together washed over you with the heat of Lando’s gaze on you. “It would be the polite thing to do.”

Oscar tucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Show him how good you make me feel,” you murmured as his grip on your thigh tightened in response.

And when you couldn’t resist anymore, your eyes snapped over to where Lando was sitting. There was something thrilling about the sight, something your fuzzy brain couldn’t begin to comprehend but your body sure as hell did. There was something about him sitting across from you both, legs spread and eyes focused on the two of you as he watched in silent appreciation.

It felt dirty. It felt wrong. It felt like the last thing the three of you should be doing in a random club in Amsterdam. And yet, none of you wanted to stop.

Lando watched in delight the way a choked gasp left your lips as Oscar tugged the neckline of your dress down, as his lips attached to the newly exposed skin. Your hand moved back to thread through his hair, tugging softly as he pulled your dress down until your tits were exposed.

He watched as Oscar let out a groan at the sight, as his lips wrapped around your nipple. He watched as your head fell back, your boyfriend’s name a breathy moan past your lips as he continued to nuzzle himself between your tits.

“Would’ve never taken you as a tits man, Oscar.” Lando’s voice was rough and low, something that shouldn’t have made the whole situation hotter but it did. “Can’t blame you though, can I? Your girl has such pretty tits, would be a crime to ignore them.”

A whine sounded from the back of Oscar’s throat.

Lando’s eyes fell from your flushed face to the hand on your thigh. He watched as Oscar continued to push the hem of your dress further up until he got impatient and allowed his hand to slip beneath the skirt. He watched as Oscar groaned something incoherent against your skin, as you shifted your hips enough for him to pull your panties down your legs with a speed that was almost impressive.

He hardly had time to blink before he felt the soft thump against his leg, as he looked down to see your panties balled up and now resting on his lap after Oscar had thrown them.

Lando let out a dark chuckle, his head falling back. “You little shit.”

But Oscar didn’t pay him any attention. Oscar didn’t pay attention to anything but you and the feeling of you beneath his lips and touch. His brain was fuzzy, his thoughts were muddled and all he knew was that he really, really fucking wanted to taste you.

Yet, you didn’t seem to share Oscar’s one-track mind.

“Not fair that we’re the only ones who get to have fun,” you murmured, your eyes watching him closely as Lando eyed the pair of panties, seeming to contemplate so many racing thoughts in his head before he reached for them. “Maybe I want a show too.”

Lando’s eyes found yours in the dark. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” it was a little high-pitched as Oscar’s thumb pressed against your clit. “Yeah. Please.”

He let out a groan. “Still so fucking polite when he is all over you.”

You weren’t even sure where the spark of confidence came from—maybe from the way he was watching you and Oscar so eagerly—but your mouth opened before you could stop yourself. “Jealous?”

“Maybe.”

You swallowed thickly, your fingers tugging on Oscar’s hair as you watched Lando’s hand drop to the obvious bulge in his pants. “Of who?”

His smirk widened. “Both.”

“Shit,” you whispered, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise leaving your lips as you tore your eyes away from the older driver before your whole body burned up.

“Look what a good boy he is,” Lando commented, watching as Oscar littered soft kisses all over your chest and collarbone as his fingers pressed small circles against your clit. “Barely even touched you and he’s humping the sofa.”

Oscar’s cheeks burned hot.

“Bet he’s obedient,” Lando continued as the sound of a zipper echoed through the booth, as the rustling made it clear to both of you what he was doing. “Such a good listener, aren’t you, Oscar? Just wanna make everyone happy, hm? A team player.”

Oscar finally lifted his head, his eyes glossed over like he was drunk off lust and desire alone.

“You gonna listen to me, baby?”

He nodded.

“Gonna do what I say?”

He nodded again, his eyes locked on the way Lando palmed himself over his boxers with one hand as he held your panties in the other.

A slow smirk spread across his face. “Get between her legs, baby, I know you’ve been dying for a taste of her probably since she put on that lil’ number.”

And Lando was right. He was obedient. It was almost like his body was moving under a spell as he shifted, as he slid off the couch and settled on his knees on the carpeted floor instead. It should have felt wrong to have his back to Lando, but instead the idea that the boy’s eyes were locked on him whilst he touched himself (even if Oscar couldn’t see) thrilled him more than it should have.

His hands palmed your thighs before he slowly spread your legs, as he pushed the fabric of your dress until it pooled at your hips and exposed you. A whimper left Oscar’s lips as he tugged you closer to the edge, as one hand pushed your thigh back whilst the other guided your leg over his shoulder.

He looked up at you, his cock twitching in his pants at the silent plea in your eyes for him to do something, to give you what you wanted just as bad as him. And his eyes never left your as he leaned down, tongue pressed against your soaked cunt as he licked upwards in one thick, broad stroke.

“Fuck!”

Lando couldn’t help himself as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, as he squeezed the length of himself before pulling his cock free of any restraints.

Lando couldn’t help himself as the hand fisting your panties wrapped around his cock, as he let the lacy fabric run against his sensitive tip and resisted the urge to buck his hips.

Lando couldn’t fucking help himself as he stroked his cock, his eyes locked on the way you panted and moaned and grasped the cushions around you as Oscar worked between your legs.

A part of him wanted to get up, to close the distance between him and you both. He wanted to walk over, he wanted to thread his fingers through Oscar’s hair like you had done before and guide him. He wanted to watch the boy lick and kiss and suck your needy cunt until his face was dripping. He wanted to whisper just what a good fucking boy Oscar really was as he made you come, as Lando watched you come.

But the other part of him liked this—this twisted sense of power. He liked the fact he could sit back and watch, like it really was a show you two were putting on for him. He liked the idea that this went beyond something any of you understood, the way the two of you were so eager and pliant and obedient for him.

He liked that he could sit back, your wet panties fisted around his cock as he watched the two of you moan and squirm and desperately try and look pretty for him.

And you did. You both looked so, so pretty for him.

And you sounded so pretty too when you moaned out his name instead of your boyfriend’s. The way your back arched off the couch, your face scrunched up in pleasure as Oscar held your hips down. The way Lando could hear the way his teammate was groaning against your pussy, see the way his hips shifted like he desperately needed some friction against his aching cock.

It was the prettiest fucking sight Lando had ever seen.

“That’s it, baby,” Lando groaned. “Come for Oscar, let him taste you, yeah?”

You nodded dumbly, far too lost in your own pleasure to even understand what he was saying.

“Bet you’re so fucking hard,” Lando continued, his eyes locked on the way the muscles in his back shifted through his shirt. “Bet you could come just from hearing her moan, huh?”

The whine Oscar let out told Lando everything he needed to know.

“That’s it,” Lando groaned, his fist tightening around his cock as he felt his stomach clench as he neared the edge, as he neared his own orgasm. “Gotta finish the show f’me, hm? Gonna be good for me, yeah?”

You chanted out Oscar’s name as you finally came, shaking and squirming as he held your body against the cushions and continued to suck on your sensitive clit. And when you couldn’t take any more, you lightly pushed his head away to see his expression: flushed cheeks, hooded eyes and glossy lips that you wanted to kiss so bad. But a shifting movement caught your eyes, your gaze moving down to look at the dark patch spread across the front of his boxers.

“Just tasted so good,” Oscar murmured, not even ashamed or embarrassed at the mess he made.

And then your eyes shifted to look at the boy across the room.

He leaned back against the cushions, his chest moving up and down with soft pants. His trousers were pushed down to pool mid-thigh, his boxers just above them and his cock was still fisted in his hand, covered by your panties and his own come. It shouldn’t have been so attractive.

“I think I prefer this Oscar much better than drunk Oscar,” Lando eventually commented, something quite like a smug grin on his face as he looked between you both.

There was a tension in the room, one that none of your fuzzy brains could really grasp onto just yet. But it was there and it was overwhelming and suffocating and you each had half the mind to hope this night never ended.

You didn’t know what would happen after tonight, but you knew until then, the hidden club in the depths of Amsterdam would keep your secret—the secret that maybe all three of you wanted something more than a night fuelled by lust and weed.

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uniquexusposts · 2 months ago

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The Dutch Grand Prix - M. Verstappen (1)

Summary: Y/n visits the Dutch Grand Prix and meets Max.

The days leading up to the Dutch Grand Prix were a whirlwind of emotions for Y/n. She had packed her suitcase with a heavy heart, her hands moving on autopilot as she threw in the clothes she’d meticulously planned to wear when she and Julien were still together; the matching outfits were left at home. A trip to Zandvoort, once a dream come true, now felt like stepping into a landmine of emotions. They had broken up weeks ago—no slamming doors or screaming matches, just the quiet puzzle of something that had once been whole.

It was Julien’s mother who called first. Y/n could still hear her soft, insistent voice, asking—no, argue—for her to join them. “You’re still part of the family,” she had said, her words clinging to the hope that somehow, this trip could stitch the ugly edges of the past back together. And maybe it was that very last hope that had Y/n and Julien would get back together.

The day of the race arrived like an overcast morning, the sun hidden behind layers of unresolved feelings. Zandvoort was a sea of orange, flags bearing Max Verstappen’s name flapping in the wind. Julien’s family greeted her with open arms, their smiles warm yet tinged with an unspoken awkwardness. Julien himself was polite, distant, like a ghost of the boy she used to know. His blue eyes, once so full of life when they looked at her, now avoided her gaze, settling instead on the horizon where the roar of engines grew louder by the minute.

The VIP section was a world apart from the chaos of the general stands. Champagne flutes clinked, the bubbles fizzing like the electric energy in the air. They were surrounded by celebrities, influencers, and sponsors—people who lived and breathed the world of Formula 1. Y/n tried to focus on the race, but her mind was elsewhere, tangled in the awkward silences and forced smiles that had filled the morning. Over the weeks, she realised she never fitted the family. Julien’s family was all about presenting the best of themselves and always thinking ahead of the possible critics they could receive. Julien had never been like that. Y/n never looked at it that way.

Y/n and Julien’s family were invited to visit Red Bull Racing’s garage before the race. While Julien’s family were walking ahead to show the best versions of themselves and try to find a way to connect with the team, Julien and Y/n were walking in a distance next to each other. They both were observing everything, they talked and fantasised about this moment before they broke up. It was quiet between them, but they quietly observed everything. The way the team worked very structured, was brilliant to Y/n. Everybody knew what to do, with just one look everything became meaningful to the crew.

And even Max Verstappen himself appeared. He was - obviously - the golden boy of the Netherlands and of many other F1 fans. During his home race, his name was on everyone’s lips. But here, in the intimate bubble of his garage, he was just Max, a team player of the team, almost like a coworker - which he was, technically. He introduced himself to Julien’s family and Y/n. His smile was confident, Y/n observed, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes; he had the race to think about, but there was a kindness there, a warmth that Y/n hadn’t expected from the star player. After all, it was a business man who was very good at his job, really well media trained. Perhaps that was why he was likeable by the sponsors and investors, aka the rich.

Julien stiffened beside her, his jaw tightening as Max’s attention lingered on her just a beat too long. It was nothing, really—just polite conversation, a fleeting connection over a shared love for the sport. But Julien saw something more, or maybe he was just seeing what he feared most: that Y/n was moving on, even if she wasn’t entirely ready to admit it to herself.

“Are you enjoying this weekend?” Max asked and looked at Y/n, giving her the opportunity to speak instead of the people around her.

He was charming in that effortless way that came from years of being in the spotlight. Y/n warmly smiled, “it’s amazing. It’s really different from TV, there you can really get the overview of everything. But being here in real time… It’s better than I thought it would be. And those Dutch fans…” Her lips parted and her eyes widened, showing an impressed impression.

Max laughed and nodded as an agreement. “Nothing tops the Dutch.”

“It’s so intense, isn't it? Everyone is so loved and welcome here at the track and just in The Netherlands in general.”

“Not always, but they do their best,” Max replied.

“Geloof me, ik weet er alles van,” Y/n replied and gave him a typical Dutch nod. (Trust me, I know all about it)

His eyebrows raised. “Die zag ik niet aankomen.” They hold each other's gaze for a moment; this was their moment, their connection. There was something about her that made him long for more, more of her story. (I did not see that coming)

But Julien’s jealousy simmered beneath the surface, a dark cloud threatening to overshadow the day. He watched as Max’s laughed with Y/n. They actually laughed at the same time, moving towards each other, and brushing their arms against each other’s arms. It was a casual, short touch, but one that sent a surge of possessiveness through him. He couldn’t stand it, the idea that Y/n, his Y/n, could be slipping through his fingers, right in front of his eyes. And the worse thing: Y/n was speaking in her native tongue, he wasn’t able to follow their conversation anymore.

After a few minutes, the family and Y/n were politely asked to leave the garage. Y/n was almost glad to do so because she felt the weight of Julien’s gaze on her. And let’s not forget the jealousy she received from her ex-in-law’s because she could speak the same language as Max, they could not. And no one knew about what they were talking about. They quickly took a photo for the memories and left.

As they walked back to the VIP area, Julien couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Y/n, what are you doing? With him?” His words tumbled out, rough and unfiltered.

She blinked, taken aback. “What are you talking about? We were just talking.”

But Julien wasn’t having it. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him. “You can’t seriously be interested in him. You just… you can’t.”

And there it was—the unspoken truth between them. Julien wasn’t ready to let her go, not yet, not when he saw her smile like that, the same way she used to smile at him.

Y/n took a deep breath, her mind racing as she tried to find the right words. “Julien, we’re not together anymore. You made that choice. I’m just trying to make the best of this trip. You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. The truth of it was painful, but undeniable. Julien had ended things, thinking it was the right thing to do, but now, seeing her with someone else—even if it was just a fleeting moment—was unbearable.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I just… I didn’t expect it to be so hard.”

Y/n softened, her anger dissipating as she looked at him. This wasn’t easy for either of them. But she couldn’t let his jealousy ruin what little peace she had found.

“It’s hard for me too,” she admitted, her voice gentle. “But we both have to move on.”

Julien nodded, but the sadness in his eyes lingered. They stood there for a moment, in the centre of the chaos before the start of the race, as they faced the reality of what their relationship had become—two people trying to find their way apart, even as they were drawn together by the echoes of what once was. As she looked at him, she knew one thing for certain: she was finally ready to start healing. And that, in itself, was a victory; the first victory for today.

Part 2

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos@crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry @snzleclerc @ironmaiden1313

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imaginesig · 3 months ago

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Left my heart in SoCal

Arthur Leclerc x Surfer!reader

What happens when you add surfer + racer?? Oh and Danny Ricc is there too

Doesnt line up with reality, whoops

yourusername

liked by outerknown, bff_username, user5, and 374,839 others

yourusername: Outerknown not only has my back for the summer, but warm SoCal winters as well #sponsored

tagged outerknown

outerknown stunning!!

yourusername 🫶☀️

user1 girl as much as I wanna shop this collection I cannot afford

user2 fr fr

bff_username get that bank girlie!!

yourusername gotta afford competition somehow

user3 ugh she's drop dead gorgeous

user4 loml

yourusername

liked by bff_username, user45, user94, and 443,948 others

yourusername: quick solo trip to the Netherlands before winter 🇳🇱 let's all thank the nice stranger who offered to take my photo at the beach and didn't kidnap me

tagged: no one

bff_username you had me stressing on the phone

yourusername thats why I didn't tell you til after

user1 LMAO GIRLIE YOU'RE IN A FOREIGN PLACE ALONE AND LET A STRANGER NOT ONLY TAKE YOUR PHONE (where they could've easily run away with it) BUT ALSO TURN YOUR BACK

yourusername he had a cute French accent it was fine

bff_username Y/N NO

user2 omg did you go to the GP??

user3 imagine if she was ever a celebrity guest

user4 I'd cry but also the chances an American surfer (despite the fact she's pro) is on F1's radar

user5 why am I not surprised that you went to another country entirely and still managed to find and post a beach

youusername 🤭

arthurleclerc posted a story!

caption: 📍 Zandvoort

yourusername

liked by user54, user4, Arthur_leclerc, and 283,849 others

yourusername: California Christmas, 1954

tagged: bff_username

bff_username our apartment has never looked better

yourusername ugh the laughter from our party still echos!!

user1 I love that you guys went with retro aesthtic

user2 im in love with the tinsel tree!!!

user3 it still throws me off every time you post and there's no snow

user4 am I seeing that right?? Arthur leclerc in the likes??

Charles_leclerc @/maxverstappen1 @/carlossainz55 @/lorenzotl this is her I'm sure of it

maxverstappen1 everything else checks out

carlossainz55 updating the gc right now

yourusername oh hello! can I help you?

Charles_leclerc check your dms

lorenzotl please

user5 lmao who are these guys?? Y/n blink twice if you need help

arthur_leclerc

liked by yourusername, user45, lorenzotl

Arthur_leclerc: Joyeux Noël🎄

tagged: Charles_leclerc, lorenzotl

lorenzotl I See you were in the sprit of family Arthur

Charles_leclerc so glad to know our short time together was spent disappearing for a girl

Arthur_leclerc so dramatic, both of you!!

user1 not Arthur soft launching

user2 awww baby Charles and Arthur

user3 what are the possibilities its that surfer user was talking about on twitter

user4 what?

user5 who?

user6 OMG WHAT IF???

yourusername

liked by bff_username, Danielriccardo, lorenzotl, and 673,838 others

yourusername I could get used to this ✈️🇦🇺🇲🇨

tagged danielriccardo

visacashapprb what a social offseason!!

yourusername give me a seat next year 🙏

visacashapp only if you teach me to surf

user1 soft launch??

user6 how do you know Danny ricc??

yourusername I have connections

user2 maybe we were wrong and somethings happening with Daniel and not Arthur

user5 but she put Australia and Monaco

danielriccardo hope the Aussie oceans didn't disappoint 🤙

yourusername never ever!! 🤙

bff_username no you don't get to get used to this- stop galavanting across the world with drivers and come home!! The kids miss you!!

yourusername otw ��‍♀️💨

user3 drivers?? as in plural?? this soft launch is getting more and more confusing as we go

user4 girlies has a busy off season

yourusername

liked by danielriccardo, sexwax, user4, and 623,838 others

yourusername: back to Cali and I'm proud to announce my newest sponsor Sex Wax!! My favorite brand for keeping my board grippy 🫶🤙

tagged: sexwax

sexwax lookin bitchin'

yourusername 🤭🤭

Arthur_leclerc 😳🥵

yourusername 💋💋

Charles_leclerc Arthur Leclerc.

yourusername oop

user1 what is happening

user2 im so confused

user3 right girlie we need clear signs as to who you're dating

user3 my timeline has been blessed

bff_username well hey there

yourusername heyyyyyyyy

Arthur_leclerc

liked by yourusername, Charles_leclerc, user2, and 271,823 others

Arthur_leclerc: Left my heart in SoCal 🩷

tagged: no one

yourusername bit obvious no??

Arthur_leclerc I was sick of assumptions 🤷‍♂️

user1 Arthur said Daniel?? Really??

user2 ok soft (hard) launch

user3 no way ive officially lost Arthur

Charles_leclerc glad to see its been a nice trip

Arthur_leclerc bringing you back a seashell

user4 LMAO WHAT

yourusername

liked by Arthur_leclerc, bff_username, user4, and 823,983 others

yourusername: preseasons going great!!

tagged no one

Arthur_leclerc "bit obvious no??"

yourusername dont make me delete this Leclerc

user1 OMG OMG STOP

user2 you're telling me this actually went somewhere

bff_username still not happy you trusted him in a foreign country alone

yourusername but the accent ☺️

user3 after todays results I can't wait for how the first competitions gonna go

yourusername

liked by Charles_leclerc, user5, Arthur_leclerc, and 748,384 others

yourusername Ferrari is my red flag

tagged: Arthur_leclerc

Arthur_leclerc im very much a green flag thank you

yourusername that jealousy streak says otherwise but ok...

Arthur_leclerc doest exist

user1 Y/N IN THE PADDOCK!!!!!

bff_user bring me home a hot driver

yourusername yes ma'am 🫡🫡

user2 ditto

user3 not Arthur roping her into a lifetime of disappointment and false hope

user4 Forza Ferrari ✊😔

Arthur_leclerc

liked by yourusername, user3, danielriccardo, and 839,938 others

Arthur_leclerc: no need for Red Bulls of any form here

tagged: Charles_leclerc, yourusername

danielriccardo "and I was like what he'd say fuck me for"

user1 lmao Arthur said "fuck the rumors"

yourusername "doesn't exist" my ass

Arthur_leclerc 🙄

user2 the matching jackets 😭

user3 as a long time Y/n fan, its been nice to see how their relationship has brought her out of her shell and out of the small bubble that is SoCal

yourusername

liked by user5, bff_username, user66, and 883,739 others

yourusername: I love you more than a California sunset 💛

tagged: Arthur_leclerc

bff_username more than a cali sunset?? what spell are you under

bff_username @/Arthur_leclerc I need to know your secret

Arthur_leclerc 🤫

user1 not her teaching him to surf 😭😭

scudaraferrari please keep out driver safe!!

yourusername always admin 🫶

Arthur_leclerc

liked by user4, yourusername, Lorenzotl, and 803,938 others

Arthur_leclerc: I take my job as a wag very seriously

tagged: yourusername

yourusername and what a wonderful job you've do!!

Arthur_leclerc ❤️❤️

comments have been limited

yourusername

liked by bff_username, user89, Arthur_leclerc, and 837,847 others

yourusername: my good luck charm has brought me so much support, confidence, and many wins!! I'm so sad I have to give him back to @/scuderiaferrari. Arthur, je t'aime

tagged: Arthur_leclerc

Arthur_leclerc Je t'aime aussi

comments have been limited

#f1 imagines #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 imagines #f2 #formula 2 #f2 x reader #formula 2 imagine #formula 1 smau #f1 #f1 imagine #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc x y/n #arthur leclerc imagine #arthur leclerc fanfic #arthur leclerc fluff

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dearest-tobio · 5 months ago

Text

"so this is it?"

oikawa's eyes glimmer with the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. he surveys your face, a mirror of his own. the logical reply is to affirm that this is, indeed, the last time you will see each other, in the coming-and-goings of a busy airport.

despite the words already on the tip of his tongue, he doesn't bring himself to say it.

he can't bring himself to say it.

instead he pulls a thin sheet of polaroid film tucked away in the folds of his jacket, fingers shaking as he passes it to you. "remember that road trip with iwa, mattsun and makki?" he laughs, devoid of mirth. "dancing under the stars?"

you stare at the picture, a bullet shattering the last shield to your defences. "yeah," you whisper, mustering the little energy you had left. "the first time you told me you loved me."

the photograph passes from him to you. the memories flash in your head: raucous sing-alongs to songs on the car radio, dim blaze of the makeshift campfire, gentle feel of oikawa's lips on yours. these trips were the hallmark of your friendship of five, but with everyone moving everywhere, you wonder if you could ever experience another.

"this isn't goodbye."

"oh, tooru." you giggle, despite it all. "when will you learn that you can't have everything? no matter how hard you try."

"i can," he insists stubbornly, gripping the handle of his suitcase with burning fervor. "argentina's just five years, ten—"

"and who's to say that we won't fall out of love then? i won't fall out of love then?"

the remark is a knife piercing oikawa's already bleeding heart. it hurts you just as much as it has wounded him, but you knew that it needed to be said. he has to learn to let go.

oikawa glances down at the watch on his wrist—a gift from you on your first anniversary. he remembers why you decided to buy it for him. your laugh, ringing through the air as you remarked: "so you can't weasel your way out of being late for our dates anymore."

the hands are damning. two hours before his flight leaves. two hours before he departs for a country miles away from everything he's ever known: his family, his friends, you.

"thanks for taking the time to see me off at the airport," he clips, barreling away from the topic at hand. "do stay in touch."

he turns away from you, struck by how it's too much to bear. his rationale screams at him to hold you close one last time, but his pride insists on moving forward. he makes his way towards the immigration gates, when he realises he has one thing left to say. tilting his head to face you, he smiles the smile you fell in love with as he makes his final plea:

"wait for me to come home."

the same six words come to mind as you hover your mouse over the option of buying tickets to the upcoming netherlands and argentina mens' volleyball match. foolish, you think. he's moved on. he's forgotten. yet you can't help but click the purchase button, and now you find yourself amidst the throngs of supporters in tokyo national stadium.

after all these years, oikawa tooru is still as radiant as ever.

he is wrapped in swathes of argentinian blue, glowing with confidence in his skills. a shaky pass from his teammate doesn't deter the expertise of his set: he tosses it in a graceful arc towards his team's ace, who then smashes it without remorse to the dutch side of the court.

the match continues with argentina strengthening the lead, enabling them to win three to none. all throughout, oikawa dazzles. you expect no less from the boy you loved. the boy you love.

before heading for the train back home to miyagi, you dare yourself to take a peek at the boisterous celebrations on court. oikawa is hoisted on to a teammate's shoulder as they crack open bottles of champagne, yelling out exclamations of joy in a language foreign to your ears. by chance, oikawa's eyes meet yours, and it is like you're back at the starry night so many years ago, swaying in his arms.

he climbs down from his raised pedestal, rushing in hasty steps to make his way to you. as he envelops you in a hug, you are unable to discern between the longing and exhilaration rushing in your veins, so you giggle. despite it all.

"i'm home."

masterlist

#memo: read me #memo: oikawa tooru #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #aoba johsai

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yeyinde · 1 year ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid.

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

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

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

Because maybe you are, too.

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

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

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

He's nice. I like him.

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

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

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving on. Moving forward.

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

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

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

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

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

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

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

You send him your pin.

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

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

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

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

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

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

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

Managed.

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

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

And that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to grin when you see them.

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

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

"When did you buy these?"

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

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

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

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

Except—

It isn’t.

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

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

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

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

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

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

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

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

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

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

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

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, is it, now?"

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

"Who even uses Tinder?"

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

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

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

"It's a nice area."

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

"The two are not even comparable—"

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

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confessing goes like this:

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

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

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

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

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

You want it. Want him.

And he—

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

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

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

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

You want him. Want him—

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

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

And you'd said—

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

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

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

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

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woso-dreamzzz · 11 months ago

Text

Sharks II

Meadema x Child!Reader

Summary: You get comfortable with Viv

You're used to having Viv in your house now. She's always there and she sleeps in bed with Mummy a lot and helps you through your morning routine every day.

She makes sure to hang out with you away from Mummy too, like that time that she took you to the big maze store that she called IKEA and you called stupid.

She bought you a new shark toy she called the Blåhaj shark but you corrected her to a Blue Shark.

You love having Viv around (though there's a name floating in your head for her that's definitely not Viv) but you're still happy to have your alone time with Mummy.

Viv's out with some of her friends so Mummy's propped you up on her lap and is reading you a story book.

"Mummy," You say," That's not English." You point at the words.

She smiles at you. "That's right," She says," That's Dutch."

"Dutch," You repeat," Like Viv."

"Like Viv. We're both going to be studying a bit of Dutch so Viv can feel more at home."

"Because she's from Dutch?"

"The Netherlands," Mummy corrects," And yes."

You think for a moment. The story book looks fun and has English and Dutch in it so you still understand it. "Okay," You say," We learn Dutch for Viv."

Mummy presses a kiss to your head as she turns the page and helps you sound out the words.

●～●～●～●～

Viv takes you to the aquarium on her next day off. Mummy would have come with too but she was busy with Auntie Leah and Auntie Katie so it's just you and Viv.

She got you dressed this morning - your favourite shark t-shirt and a pair of shorts before bundling you into her arms and heading to the train station.

"Cool," You say, making sure to keep a tight hold of Viv's hand because Mummy always says you have to hold an adult's hand when you're out.

There's a bit of the aquarium that's just clear glass on the floor looking into one of the tanks and you spend so much time standing on it that Viv gets a little worried that you think that's all there is.

"Come on, liefje," She says," Let's keep going. There's more to see."

You let her pull you along happily.

Ma-Viv shows you lots of different fishies and is more than happy to crouch next to you and read off the little placards by the tanks. She's pleasantly surprised when you ask her to translate it into Dutch.

"That's a Sand Tiger Shark," You say as you point up to the big tank," They like to hunt at night."

"That's very interesting, liefje," Ma-Viv says, pointing at another shark floating along the bottom," What about that one?"

You study it for a moment, head tilted to the side as you watch it. "Nurse shark! They have moustaches that are actually taste buds!"

Ma-Viv smiles at you, an affectionate hand running over your head. "Come on," She pulls you along to one of the walkways near the end.

You wander closer to one of those electronic screens that has buttons to choose your answers on it.

You can read your little story books at home (both in English and Dutch now) but this is a little too advanced to you so you tug on Mama's hand to get her attention.

"Read please," You tell her.

It's a little quiz on sharks with multiple choice answers that you happily press the buttons to choose.

You get all of them right (of course) and get especially excited when a goblin shark appears on the screen.

"Goblin shark!" You cry," Like my top, Mama! Like my top!"

You don't know why but Mama looks at you with wide eyes, mouth falling open. She looks a little tearful as she nods. "Yeah, liefje, it is like your top."

You look down happily at your t-shirt and then back at the screen.

Mama bought you this top the day after your trip to get your Blåhaj shark and for the first two days, you refused to take it off. Mummy hates it but you love it so you keep it in your room, under your pillow so she can't throw it away.

"Mama, come on," You say to her as she remains frozen in the same spot. You've finished the quiz and kind of want to move on - Mummy promised that Mama would buy you something at the gift shop.

She still looks slightly tearful and drops your hand.

You turn to look at her. "Mama?"

She picks you up, holding you closer as she rest her chin on the top of your head.

"Mama? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, liefje. Why...Why don't we stop off at the touch tanks and then we'll get you your presents?"

You nod along, practically shaking with excitement as you reach into the tank to run your fingers gently over the back of an epaulette shark. Mummy always tells you to be gentle when stroking cats and dogs so you make sure to be extra gentle with the little shark.

"You touch," You tell Mama, who's still holding you tight.

"I'm fine, liefje," She says, refusing to relinquish her hold on you," This is for you."

"I'm going to study sharks when I'm older," You tell Mama earnestly as she walks you to the gift shop.

"You are? No football?"

You reach out to touch a shark mug. "Sharks are more fun than football," You tell her," Can this be my present?"

"Just this?"

"Mummy says that I can only get one thing."

Mama smiles at you. "We've just had a very special day, liefje. I think we get you more than one thing."

You beam, remembering the sentence that Mummy taught you last week. "Thank you, Mama! Ik houd van je (I love you)!"

She looks as shocked as she was earlier when you saw the goblin shark photo. "I love you too, liefje."

#woso x reader #meadema x reader #beth mead x reader #beth mead #vivianne miedema x reader #vivianne miedema #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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miercoooles · 1 year ago

Text

Home

Summary: Everything is all set with the first snowfall coming around, now all you need is your husband to come home.

Pairing: Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: cursing, angst if you squint (I think?), teeth-rotting fluff (hopefully), strangers to lovers (kinda) bee- cause why not hehe, and Seb being adorable >:(

A/N: I know I said this was meant to be out on Seb’s birthday but I got caught up with college work and got lazy, so I apologise to those who waited. This is not proof read or beta read (so advance apologies for the terrible writing).

Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

December finally came around Switzerland, and you were currently residing on the couch, holding a mug of hot chocolate as you tuned in on the television listening to the weather news report. When you heard the announcer mention that the first snowfall will be seen sometime this week, the corner of your lips curled upwards, forming a grin as you squealed like a little kid getting candy.

While others dreaded the coming of winter and its sub-zero temperature, it was no secret to anyone that knew you that it is your favourite season. From its white snow covering the houses and streets that allows you to make snowmans and snow angels to the Christmas lights that brightened up the long, pitch black, endless nights, to the cold weather that makes it absolutely perfect for cuddling.

Now all you needed to make everything complete was for your husband to return to your arms. Actually when you first met your now husband, it was like a usual cliché love story.

You were ordered by your boss to fly all the way to the Netherlands for an official work trip. Or well that was what you were supposed to be doing when you arrived in Amsterdam until the client you were supposed to meet up with ditched you.

Now here you are miles away from your hometown, lost in a whole new foreign land with only a fair amount of pocket money and few changes of clothes.

You staggered along the streets, your phone in your hand as you made your way to the busy and crowded area trying to find the hotel your office booked for you while on the said trip.

Looking back on your phone, you sighed as you followed the directions on Google Maps. But after a few more minutes of this wild goose chase, you gave up and sat on a bench somewhere. Leaning your head on the bench, you rubbed your eyes, completely exhausted and jetlagged from the flight.

When you opened your eyes, you saw the setting sun slowly descend towards the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the vast expanse of the sky. The sky transformed into a canvas of vivid colours, blending shades of orange, pink, and purple, creating a breathtaking display that captured your heart and soul.

You exhaled heavily, getting up from where you were seated as you carried on your venture to seek for your hotel. Turning on your phone, you followed the nearest route shown on the screen.

“You’ve arrived at your destination.”

Your ears perked up as soon as you heard those words. But the moment you looked up, the excitement you regained dissipated in a blink of an eye as you wince at the sight of the hotel. While you expected a cosy hotel that exuded an immediate sense of warmth and comfort, that would create an ambiance that felt like a home away from home, instead you were greeted by an odd and peculiar hotel that stood in stark contrast to its surroundings, defying conventional architecture and exuding an aura of eccentricity.

And as if the world knew your reluctance to step in, rain began to come down from the sky.

“Just my luck! Don’t tell me it can get any worse than this, right?” You groaned to no one in particular, your things starting to get soaked from the pouring water.

But like jinxing yourself as you said those words, it did in fact get much worse because when you went up the steps and tried opening the front doors, it was shut tight.

You kicked the door out of frustration before remembering that your things might be wet. Grabbing your luggage, you carried it up and placed it under the portico of the hotel before sitting on one of the steps, letting your skin seep the rain.

A few moments have passed and your body started shivering from the cold. You placed your arms on your thighs as you buried your face on your shaking hands, trying your best to warm yourself up.

“Stupid boss sending me on this stupid business trip. Fuck me!”

“You know you shouldn’t say that out loud when you’re alone in the dimly lit part of this street.” A voice suddenly piped up, making you jump from where you were seated, your hand holding your chest as you felt your heart race.

You quickly whipped your head to where the sound came from and you saw a man with a messy, short light brown hair and blue eyes that was sparkling even in the darkness. He had a stubble growing on across his defined jaw that made him look mature.

“Don’t do that! Are you trying to kill me?” You sneered at the man who was holding back his laughter.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I saw you as I was walking past and I heard you say that, so I just wanted to warn you…”, he explained, looking genuinely sorry for his sudden appearance.

When you felt no rain on your skin, you looked up to see a black umbrella over your head being held by the stranger who frightened you.

“A-and you were getting drenched from the rain, so I was going to offer my umbrella…”, he proceeded to explain, gesturing at the umbrella he was holding up for the both of you.

There was a deafening silence that came after what he said as you pressed your lips in a tight line.

“Sorry, I should have minded my own business.”, he spoke up once more when he realised that he won’t get anything from you.

You let out a soft chuckle that only the two of you can hear before turning to face him, “You talk too much.”

His eyes widened at your remark, his cheeks turning into a shade of light red as he became flustered and self-conscious.

“It’s okay though… It’s honestly quite comforting that someone would be so kind to tell me.”, you followed up, noticing his embarrassment from your comment.

Now it was his turn to stay quiet, stunned as he heard you speak. He looked away, hiding a small grin that was forming on his lips. When he managed to control it, he turned back to you, tilting his head as his gaze fixed on you.

You felt his eyes bore holes into you and you can’t help but feel naked. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think of finding yourself in this situation, but here you were with a stranger who was willing to share his umbrella with you, observing you like a hawk.

“I’m assuming you have a question…”, you spoke out, returning his stare.

His lips fell into a thin straight line as he realised that he must have been obvious. “I… Well, I was curious at why you were sitting here all alone at night. That hotel has been under renovation for months already…”, he explains in a small and soft voice.

You looked at him appalled, completely speechless at what you heard. “Y-you’re telling me that this place has been closed for months?” He nodded meekly in reply, seeming embarrassed as he moved his hands to his nape and rubbed it softly.

There was silence that surrounded you both as everything happening to you started sinking in. This must have been a set up from your company, knowing how much they despised you and wished for your downfall.

As the man beside you felt that you were in distress, he removed his coat and immediately placed it over your shoulders, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s not my place to ask, but if you want you can stay over my place? It’s not that far from here.”

He pursed his lips as he awaited your answer. He knows he’s just a stranger, but he couldn’t help feeling pity towards you. Besides you seem nice enough to be a killer acting helpless, so what could go wrong right?

“How am I sure you’re not some sort of murderer trying to lead me into a death trap?”, you ask after a few moments that definitely assured him you were not a killer.

He lets out a soft chuckle that breaks the stillness and awkwardness of the atmosphere. There was something about his laugh that made you feel warm and fuzzy despite the cold settling on your bones.

“Fair enough, but trust me if I was a killer, I would have gone a different way.” He says reassuringly before standing up and grabbing your luggage.

“Come on! Or would you rather stay here?” He gestures, carrying your things as he goes down the step.

Shaking your head in utter disbelief, you stood up and followed him, keeping a safe distance in case he tried to do something. You heard his laugh as he led the way, the fuzzy feeling growing and when he looked back at you, he gave you a wide and goofy smile that made your heart flip.

“Oh by the way, I’m Sebastian Vettel. But you can call me Seb.” He mentions before turning his back on you and starts walking again. You suppress a smile as you calm yourself down, reminding yourself that you just met the man and you should not trust him easily.

You quietly continued following him, shivering as it got colder even though it stopped raining already. As you both approached an apartment building, you felt a light and cool touch against your forehead.

As you look up to the sky, you witness a mesmerising spectacle unfold before your eyes. Delicate snowflakes, like ethereal dancers, descend from the heavens, gracefully floating in the air.

“S-snow?”, you said dumbfoundedly, halting in your tracks. When Sebastian noticed that you weren’t following him anymore, he turned back to look at you looking enthralled as snow continued to fall.

“First time?”

As he broke your train of thoughts, you hummed and nodded in response as your eyes never left the sky.

“Guess I’m lucky that I’m the first person you get to experience a White Christmas then, huh?” He chimed, his tone filled with excitement as he watched you.

A few days after the weather report, you started setting up and decorating your home for Christmas as you waited for your husband to come home.

Grabbing your phone from the side table, you texted a message to your husband.

You: Love, when will you be back?

Sending the message, you threw your phone to the side, as you stood up from the couch, and started pacing back and forth in your living room. Minutes have passed and you looked at your phone for the nth time, debating whether you should send another message as you waited for his response.

As you were about to grab your phone and decide to send him another text, your phone notification pinged.

Seb Sugar Pie Honey Bunch: Sorry, liebling. I don’t know if I’ll make it in time to spend the first snow with you. I know how much this means to you, but I promise to make it up to you once I get home.

Can’t wait to be back in your arms. I love you xx

Reading his message, you couldn’t help but feel bummed down. The first snowfall was a special moment you annually celebrated with your husband. You shared many memories with him that included the first winter fall. Your first meeting, first official date, when you answered ‘yes’ as he asked you to be his girlfriend, when he proposed to you, when you got married, all those things happened during the first snow.

And experiencing the first one this year without him, it felt dull and meaningless. So as the next days came by, you did nothing but mope around, spending your morning and afternoon sleeping in your bed or eating ice cream while snuggling under a blanket as you sobbed to cringe, sappy romantic movies.

When the day of the predicted snowfall arrived, you excitedly hopped off your shared bed with your husband and ran down to the living room, waiting by the window.

An hour came by and seeing that there wasn’t any snow yet, you went to the kitchen to prepare yourself something to eat. Opening the fridge, you looked for ingredients you can use to make the easiest and lightest meal possible. Once you got it cooked and prepared, you sat by the island counter, beginning to chow down on it as your gaze never left the window.

Finishing your meal, you washed the dishes and cookware you used, placing them inside the dish dryer and wiping the kitchen and island counter. After cleaning up, you shuffled back to the living room and sat on the sofa as you looked out and waited for the snow.

While anticipating for the first snow to arrive, you kept yourself busy and distracted with everything you see, as well as trying to stray away from your phone. Turning on the television and stereo, you started playing music to liven up the mood, dancing around the living room.

Later when you checked outside, you saw little specks of white falling to the ground. Feeling the course of excitement filling your body, you grabbed the nearest shoes and slipped it on, not bothering to change out of your pyjamas before running to the front door.

As you emerge into the stillness of the wintry landscape, a hush blankets the surroundings. The familiar sounds of everyday life are muted, replaced by the gentle whispers of falling snowflakes. The world seems to hold its breath in awe of the transformation unfolding before your eyes.

While everyone went indoors, preparing for the incoming chilly weather, you stood in the middle of the lawn piling with snow, capturing the beauty it provided. Each snowflake falling from the sky, a unique masterpiece, intricately crafted by nature's hand. They fall gently onto your face and eyelashes, instantly melting upon contact, leaving a cool kiss on your skin. The air feels fresh and invigorating, carrying the scent of winter and a hint of pine.

Letting out a soft sigh as you let the cold envelop you, seeping through your skin, settling deep within your bones. Your breath becomes visible, a cloud of mist that hangs in the air for a fleeting moment before dissipating into the icy abyss. And looking around, you witness the gradual metamorphosis of the scenery. Every surface becomes a canvas for the delicate white flakes, transforming the landscape into a pristine, ethereal landscape. Trees, rooftops, and the ground itself are gradually covered in a soft, velvety layer of snow, as if nature has carefully tucked the world in for a peaceful slumber.

As you stand still, you can't help but be captivated by the silence. The snow absorbs the sound, creating a serene and tranquil atmosphere. The only audible presence is the gentle whisper of snowflakes landing on the ground, adding to the symphony of nature's delicate touch.

Looking up, you see the sky adorned with a tapestry of white, as countless snowflakes continue their descent from above. The world feels transformed, as if transported to a realm where time slows down, and worries and stresses melt away in the purity of the moment.

You hold your palms out to catch the falling snow, closing your eyes in the process as the cool snowdrops meet your skin. You let another sigh out as snowflakes gently make contact with your cheeks, nose, and eyelashes. At that moment, time seems to slow down. You become fully present, completely immersed in the serene beauty of the winter moment. The world around you takes on a dreamlike quality, as if you've entered a quiet sanctuary, a realm where worries and cares momentarily fade away.

Shortly after settling down with the cold, you felt something heavy on your hand, startling you as your eyes jolted wide open. Looking down you see your husband and his chin placed on your palm. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, thinking that you might be hallucinating from missing him too much. But when you opened your eyes the second time and still saw his goofy grin, your eyebrows furrowed.

When your significant other saw the perplexed look your face held, he pursed his lips tightly thinking that he must be doing something wrong.

“Is this not how I’m supposed to be doing?” He asked, looking at you through his eyelash.

You blinked a few times, your face contorting into an even more confused expression as your eyes showed mixed emotions at the thought of the man who told you that he won’t be home is the same man right in front of you right now.

“S-Seb? You’re-”

“Home... Surprise, liebling.” He interrupted, finishing your sentence as he suppressed a smile.

Still resting his chin on the palm of your hand, he tilts his head slightly, his famous gummy grin once more appearing on his face.

You stayed silently still, pursing your lips as your mind continued to process everything before letting out a soft sigh escape your lips as you come to the conclusion that you must be daydreaming.

“Pinch me, I must be dreaming. You’re not really here, right? Because you told me that you won’t make it in time for this.” You went on, speaking about how he was not supposed to be here yet and other excuses.

As you were in the midst of your rambling, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and words, you suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of his laughter. It cut through the air like a burst of sunlight, breaking through the cluttered maze of your thoughts and drawing you into the present moment.

The sound was like a gentle symphony, harmonising with the cadence of your own voice. It carried a warmth that permeated the room, infusing the space with a sense of joy and lightheartedness. In that instant, it felt as if the universe had conspired to align your words with his laughter, creating a perfect harmony.

The laughter flowed freely, like a bubbling brook that cascades over rocks, each note infused with genuine amusement. It was a melodic dance, rising and falling, as his mirth embraced your rambling thoughts. The sound of his laughter was pleasing that it distracted you from what you were saying.

And as the delicate snowflakes descend from the sky, gently blanketing the world around you, you find yourself standing in a moment that feels like pure magic. After months of longing and separation, your eyes finally meet those of your husband, and a rush of emotions swells within you.

The air is crisp and alive with anticipation, as the snowflakes create a soft, ethereal backdrop. The sound of muffled footsteps and hushed whispers seems to fade into the background, leaving only the two of you standing together in this wintry embrace.

As you draw closer, a nervous excitement tingles in the pit of your stomach, a mix of anticipation and relief that the long wait is finally over. The world around you seems to fade away, and all that matters is the connection between you.

Your gazes lock, communicating a depth of love and longing that words could never capture. Time seems to slow as he reaches out; his right hand cupping your cheeks while his left hand makes its way to your waist, snaking his arm around you as if he was afraid to let you go. The warmth of your touch contrasts with the coolness of the falling snow, creating a tender juxtaposition.

“How about I do this instead?” He whispers softly, his voice filled with happiness and love as his face advances to yours, his lips mere inches away from touching you.

And in that magical moment, your lips meet. The softness of the kiss feels like a gentle dance, a blending of warmth and tenderness that melts away any remaining distance or time apart. The taste of familiarity and love lingers, as if reuniting with a part of yourself that was temporarily missing.

As the snowflakes continue to descend around you, he tilts his head as he deepens the kiss, a fusion of emotions and longing that has built up over the months of separation. It's a moment of reconnection, a reaffirmation of your bond and the strength of your love.

The world around you seems to hold its breath, as if honouring this intimate and sacred exchange. The soft sound of snowflakes touching the ground becomes a gentle symphony, underscoring the significance of this long-awaited reunion.

As the kiss ends, a sense of contentment washes over you. The weight of the months apart is lifted, replaced by a renewed sense of togetherness and a shared journey moving forward. The snowflakes continue their graceful descent, serving as witnesses to this beautiful moment.

“Y-you’re really here?” You asked once more as the realisation finally settles down, your voice still filled with disbelief.

“I’m really here, my love”, Sebastian assures you, letting a soft chuckle out as he nuzzles his nose against yours, his arms still not letting you go.

You let out a giggle when his nose touched yours, tickling you in the process. You then wrap your arms around his neck, watching him. As you stare at him, your eyes become magnets, drawn to every curve of his face, every twinkle in his eyes, and every subtle expression that dances across his features. Your gaze is filled with wonder, as if you are discovering a masterpiece that was created just for you.

“I missed you so much, Sebby!” You murmured excitedly against his lips before connecting your lips to his once more.

And under the first snowfall, after months of not seeing your husband, the kiss becomes a testament to the enduring power of love and the joy of being reunited. It's a cherished memory that will forever be etched in your hearts, a reminder of the strength and resilience of your relationship in the face of time and distance.

Parting his lips away from yours, he gazes at you, his crystal blue eyes swirling with love and passion then enveloping you in a tight embrace, placing his chin on your head. He soon realised that you must have been cold to the bones as you shivered against his hug and when he pulled away, he laughed a little, noticing that you only had your sleepwear.

“You must have been quite excited that you did not have time to change clothes, huh?” He jokingly asked, teasing you.

You scoffed and gently shoved him, making him chuckle once more before drawing you near him, his arms wrapped around your shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you inside and I’ll make you a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up.”

“Cuddles too?”, you meekly ask him and he nods, guiding you towards the porch.

“Mhm. And I missed you most ardently too, schatz.” Sebastian uttered softly, gently planting a tender kiss on your temple as you both made your way inside your sweet little home.

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sl-newsie · 3 months ago

Text

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 21: Welcome Back

2 years later

Kimber wasn’t the only one who suffered from the battle. Campbell took a shot. Left his leg useless. Witnesses said a blonde woman did it. But that’s all behind us now. Small Heath has grown into my heart as a new home. Unfortunately the calling to my old home wasn’t weak enough to stop me from tying up loose ends. A few months after the whole Kimber dual I decided to take a quick trip back home to Brooklyn. The Shelbys were disappointed to see me leave, especially Finn. But I assured them I would be back in a few weeks’ time.

Sadly time did not agree to my plan. The instant I arrived back home I discovered my stay was going to exceed far beyond what I’d hoped. Mother contracted tuberculosis and since my brothers were called away on ‘private business’ I was obligated to stay and nurse her back to health. For the next half a year I received multiple letters from the Shelbys asking about my return. After a while I simply replied that only God can answer for me.

And God must have heard my prayers because lo and behold after what seemed like a whole century mother finally recovered. I thank the angels a million times and counting for her good health. My parents are reluctant towards my decision to return to Birmingham but the mention of an official job persuaded them. No words were said about what type of business I’m working for. One packed trunk and one boat ticket later I’m right back to where I’d been lost two years ago.

Nothing seems to have changed. Small Heath is still the same gloomy and dusty crime heap as it was when I arrived last time. The sight of the familiar Shelby household makes my heart soar. But my excitement is crushed the minute I enter the home. No lights are on. A dreary atmosphere has draped over the house and is dead silent. Where is everyone? According to Thomas’ letters their business has been thriving. Where else would they be?

“Hello?” I poke my head into the kitchen.

Still no one. I set my suitcase down and move to the back door. Where on Earth-?

“Who’s there?” a gruff voice asks sharply. I know that voice.

“Is that any way to treat a visitor?” I accuse lightly and open the door. “Thomas Shelby. It’s good to once again be of service.”

Same handsome smile. Same piercing blue eyes. As usual he’s dressed to the nines in a fine black suit. But this seems slightly fancier than usual.

“Hello, love.” He offers a hand and we shake. “‘S good to see your smile light up this place.”

I get straight to the point. “What happened? Why the dress-up?”

Thomas hangs his head and pulls out a cigarette. “Freddie’s dead. Pestilence.”

Dear Lord. Another death. Poor Ada, she was so happy with him.

I give a heavy sigh. “Why is it whenever I’m around the shadow of death follows me? I am so sorry. How’s Ada been?”

He takes a puff and a halo of smoke clouds his face. “She’s taking it fine, actually. Says she’s free now.”

“Acceptance is a vital stage of grief.”

He gives a small hum and passes me to walk into the kitchen. “How’s things in America?”

I guess that discussion is closed. “Much better now that my mother’s well. Though I wish I could say the same for my in-laws in Germany. They had to move back to the Netherlands since the economy’s been so run down.”

Thomas, as usual, reaches for a whiskey bottle I’ve brought. “I heard Prohibition is in full swing.”

I groan. “Don’t remind me. Father’s been taking a hit and we finally convinced him to open a speakeasy.”

He takes a drink and hums in approval. “‘S good to have you back.”

It’s sad to see Thomas hasn’t lost his gruff personality. If anything he’s just as cold as before. I suppose all hope of having a relationship higher than being his employee has withered in these long two years. But at least his heart has been given time to mend.

I haven’t seen Grace around in America… Though maybe that’s because as soon as I got home I had my brothers send out a warning to our contacts to keep her away from Brooklyn. In America we stand by loyalty and never forget.

“We’re expanding to London,” Thomas continues and I follow him towards the Bull Ring.

“Yes, your last letter hinted at that. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations can wait. The Garrison’s just been attacked.”

Seems that the Shelby’s lives are still violent as ever.

“Another mystery for Thomas Shelby to solve. Mind if I help?”

Thomas opens the door to let me through, then takes a drag from his cigarette and smirks. “It’d be a waste of a trip if you didn’t. Although some of us are still surprised you’ve held on this long.”

Shelby Company Limited is now officially on the door. There’s also new hired help. A few new bookkeepers and secretaries. But no familiar faces.

“You can go catch up with the others while I go see to a lead,” Thomas says and gestures to the back office.

“Where are the others? Where’s Polly?”

“She and John are in the back. Better let her know you’re here or she’ll have my head. Finn too. They’ve missed you.” He pauses and seems to think over his next words. “We’ve all missed you.”

A warm smile creeps onto my face. “‘S good to feel wanted. I’m glad to be back.” I point to the new sign. “You’ve got your name on the door now.”

He nods. “‘S my office.”

I raise a brow and tilt my head respectfully. “Impressive. It suits you.”

He opens the door and I stride in, literally walking into a conversation between Polly and John. Both of them haven’t noticed me yet. What I do see is that Finn has hidden himself under the table, trying to be part of the conversation. Sneaky lad.

“Six. Six questions since you’ve walked through that door,” the Romanian woman says. “Soon you’ll have to start being the man with the answers.”

“Why?” John asks.

Polly frowns. “Seven. Because when London happens you’ll have to hold up your end. Or we’ll find someone else who can.”

“He can do it,” I say, determined.

Both their heads whip around to spot me in the doorway. Beneath the table Finn’s eyes go wide and Polly breaks into a wide grin.

“Verena, love! Good to see you!” Polly rushes over and pulls me into a hug. “You made it over ok?”

“Yes yes, it was a dull trip.” I catch my breath from her death-like grip and smile at the young Shelby. “My goodness! Look at you! Finn, you grew like a weed! Might I say a fine young gentleman!”

Finn, wearing a sheepish smile, stands up from under the table. He holds out a hand and we both shake. “You talked with Thomas?”

“Briefly. He still as stubborn as before?”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Since you’re back now, does that mean…?”

I cannot stop smiling today! “Yes, Finn. I can set aside time for some more lessons. I thought you’d be sick of them by now.”

He gawks at my words. “No way! I’ve missed them.”

Oh. I didn’t think they meant this much. But I suppose since his brothers have been so busy with the London expansion then Finn might get looked over now and then.

“Patience, Finn. I’m sure Verena’s tired from her travels.” Polly ushers him away and gestures for me to follow her out. “You have no idea what it’s been like to be the mother hen around here. Thanks so much for coming back. How’s your mum?”

“She’s recovered and hasn’t let it slow her down,” I answer. “And now my brother Abel-”

But a John pulls Polly over and I’m left alone. Um, good to be back? I guess I can wait in the kitchen until someone gives me further instructions. Patience, Verena. It’s been two long years. These people don’t need me busting in with catch-up chit chat.

“Ugh.”

There’s no mistaking that grunt. Thomas must be back from his lead. I poke my head out and see my guess is correct. The gangster seems angered by something.

“You’re upset,” I observe, wanting an explanation.

Thomas grunts again and puffs on a cigarette. “Best for you to stay out of it.”

Oh. So much for clear communication. “Thank you for taking your anger somewhere else. Can I help with anything?”

“Apparently I’m the chosen one. Some Irish scum tried to shake me up.”

Irish. Possibly IRA. Uncle Colon would have told me if he was sending any contacts.

“You gonna call a family meeting?” A bit of my Brooklyn slang slips.

Thomas cracks a small smile at my accent. “Bingo. Would you mind making biscuits to go along with it? You have no idea how hard it’s been without them.”

I mock-curtesy and Thomas goes on to enter his office. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Shelby. When should I tell them to expect you?”

He gets to his desk and turns around. “Don’t bother with that. I’ll show up when I show up.”

Same old Thomas. God has graced his family with prosperity. Still I suppose time hasn’t been too kind on his heart for him to act so brash. So where do I come in?

Good to know the kitchen hasn't changed. How appropriate. My place remains doing what women do best: keeping house. Soon enough I mix up some dough for biscuits and bake the first batch just as Finn walks through for the family meeting.

“John and Arthur are on their way. You can join too.”

Word must travel fast. I quickly throw the hot cookies onto a plate and follow Finn into the back office. Finn begins pacing beside where Polly is standing. There are a few more standing in the back but I can’t put my finger on their names. Esme waits on the staircase, while the rest of the Shelby brothers are in front.

“Sit down, Finn,” Arthur instructs.

Finn obeys but is still antsy.

“Where the bloody Hell is Tommy?” John asks impatiently.

“He’s on his way,” Polly answers sternly.

Arthur thinks for a moment and then stands up to fetch a wooden crate. “Well while we’re waiting so patiently.” He sets the crate on the table. “Whiskey.”

Now I step closer into the room to make my presence known, holding one of father’s bottles.

“If you’re looking for whiskey, might I suggest the Steenstra brand?” Both brothers look up and I give them a wave. “John, Arthur. You’re looking well.”

Behind their stern frowns their eyes lighten up and they each offer a quick hug.

“Good to have you back, Steenstra.” Arthur gladly takes the bottle and offers me a glass. “You still don’t drink, eh?”

“Only for special occasions.”

“And being reunited with the Peaky Blinders isn’t one?” Arthur replies. “Come on, Steenstra. Have a drink!”

I can’t help but give into his hospitality. “Very well.”

John passes over the glass with a small frown. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

“She’s forgiven, John. She made biscuits!”

John’s attitude immediately changes and he pulls over the plate I’ve brought. Finn joins in on drinking as well but I keep my mouth shut. I settle down next to him just as John gets up to address us.

“Before Tommy gets here I think there’s a few things we need to get straight between the rest of us.”

Polly scoffs. “You think?”

John nods. “Yeah. I want to know… when did we all take a vote on this expansion south?”

This doesn’t sound right. “You mean the move to London wasn’t a group decision?”

Esme speaks up. “Should she be here?”

She gives John a look and he mulls over the idea. “Um, maybe-”

“Shut it,” Finn interrupts sharply. “Verena’s the one who taught me to think, not you. She stays.”

John looks at the floor and nods. “Right then. Now, I see all the books. Shelby Company Limited has been making 150 pounds a day. Sometimes more. Why are we changing things?”

Finn considers this with a serious expression. I’m glad to see my teachings about economics haven’t gone wasted. John and Polly bicker some more and Esme tries to butt in. If only someone would tell me about what the Hell is going on then maybe I could do something besides make biscuits.

Just then Thomas walks in and the arguing stops.

“Everyone’s allowed to speak. On your feet, Esme. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

She stands up from her place on the stairs but John begins before she can speak.

“I speak for our household. So-”

Thomas won’t have it. “John, this is a modern enterprise that believes in equal rights for women. On your feet, Esme.”

My, Thomas has changed. He’s allowing more outside opinions. Women’s ones, at that. In some places back home it’s like pulling teeth to even win a conversation against a man about what shoe polish is better. But I know better. Grace left a bigger mark on him that he’ll care to admit.

Esme takes a breath and sets her jaw straight. “‘M not a bloody member of this family, but perhaps that can allow me to see things in a different light. I have kin in Shepherd's Bush and Portobello. It’s more like wars between armies down there. I want to raise my child somewhere with no violence.” She glares defiantly at Thomas. “London is just smoke and trouble, Thomas. That’s all I have to say.”

“That was a lot of words.”

Arthur offers a glass. “Wash ‘em down with a drink.”

Thomas nods in response. “Thank you, Esme. Firstly, the bang in the pub had nothing to do with London. Understood? That is something I’m dealing with on my own. Secondly, we have nothing to fear from the proposed business expansion so long as we stick together.” He gestures to where I’m sitting. “Our dear ally and friend Verena is joining us for this, so we will have strength in numbers. After the first few weeks, nine-tenths of what we do in London will be legal. The other tenth is in good hands. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

His brother nods. “That’s right.”

“Some of you in this room have discussed your reservations,” Thomas addresses. “Fair enough. If any of you don’t want no part in the future of this company, walk out the door. Right now. For those of you with ambition, expansion begins tomorrow.”

John’s itching to say something but remains silent. Polly still looks torn about the matter but Arthur seems fine with it and celebrates with another drink. Finn rubs his head and soon both he and Thomas are looking at me expectantly. The answer is obvious.

“I just traveled thousands of miles to get back to work. I’m not backing out now.”

Finn lets out a sigh of relief and his older brother slowly claps. Family or not, I’ve just dug myself deeper into this crazy world.

“Welcome back, Ms. Steenstra.”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fucking blinders #peaky fookin blinders #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #polly gray #arthur shelby #john shelby #finn shelby #grace burgess #cillian murphy

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ltwilliammowett · 1 year ago

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Sailors Superstition Part 6

You can find the other parts here- Part 5 - Part 4 - Part 3 - Part 2 - Part 1

I was a busy little bee and found a few more.

(x)

Cold Iron Touch metal and say cold iron will protect you from witches and fairies on board. It was also whispered on board of Scottish and Irish ships when someone had taken the forbidden words rabbit or pig in the mouth and so the misfortune herrauf conjured, only so could an upcoming misfortune from himself avert.

Crew change Please change your fishing boat crew every season and you will be lucky.

Cross A small wooden cross around the neck was a from of divine protection. The Spanish and Portuguese even had crosses on their sails to protect their ships.

Fly For sailors from Greenock, Scotland, it was a good omen if a fly fell into the glass from which the man was about to drink.

Garlic In Greece and Turkey it was common to wrap a bunch of garlic around the rails to protect the ship from storms. Medieval England, the Netherlands and France, on the other hand, banned garlic and onions on board because they were said to affect the lodestone or compass.

Storm songs It needs some wind ? don't worry just sing Ghostly Sailor or Young Charlotte and the weather will turn against you and call for a storm.

Good luck charms Sailors are notoriuos for carrying good luck charms or totems. Some of the more common ones are carved horns (England, Norway, Denmark); pieces of slate (America, Sweden, Scotland); small sugared skulls (Mexico); horse figurines (China); dried apples (England); animal and human ashes (Africa); wooden carvings of geese (Ireland); carved figurines of saints (France, Spain, Portugal, Italy); bat wings (Europe, America); bone fragments (America, Canada, Japan); otter skin (Shetland Islands); and the right front paw of a seal (Scotland)

Michigan Mitten Great Lakes sailors were once fearful of sailing on an inverted U-shaped voyage, something that happens when a trip is planned around a peninsula. This mitten shape occurs, for instance, on a route from Toledo, Ohio, to Chicago or between Detroit and Milwaukee. The reason behind this may have been that the inverted U resembles an upside- down horseshoe, which is a very unlucky symbol.

Speaking Speaking to a ship to encourage her along greatly increases her speed. Sailors would not consider this as superstitious, although others might.

#naval history #sailors superstition #part 6 #10th -19th century #medieval seafaring #age of discovery #age of sail #age of steam

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stephensmithuk · 4 months ago

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The Lost Special

CW for discussion of sexual abuse and capital punishment.

Originally published in The Strand in 1898, i.e. during the hiatus years, this would be collected with a bunch of other Doyle stories in the Round the Fire Stories collection released in 1898. Doyle continued to have stories regularly published during the hiatus.

The London and West Coast Railway Company is fictitious; the company that operated the line discussed in this route was the London and North Western Railway (LNWR), the biggest revenue earner of the period due to the sheer size of its operations. It would become part of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway (LMS) in 1922 during "Grouping" i.e. the merger of British railway companies into four major ones. The LNWR name came back as the London Northwestern Railway brand of West Midlands Trains in 2017, operating commuter and semi-fast services from Euston. That franchise is due to operate until 2026, at which point, considering the likely result of the upcoming election, it will be nationalised. What happens to the name after that remains to be seen.

Liverpool Central refers to two stations. The one here is the six-platform "High Level" station, opened in 1874 as the headquarters of the Cheshire Lines Committee (CLC) and offering services to Manchester Central, London St. Pancras or even Harwich for the ferry services to the Netherlands. The CLC remained independent after Grouping

There was also, slightly to the North West. the 1892-opened "Low Level" station, that was underground, opened by the Mersey Railway, but with staircase access to the High Level one and provision for a through railway connection left to that station if it was decided to join the two lines. This operated local trains towards Birkenhead using the world's second underground railway after London. This also stayed its own operation after Grouping in 1922; both companies would become part of British Railways on nationalisation in 1948.

In 1966, the Beeching Axe saw the High Level station have nearly all its services diverted to Liverpool Lime Street, with only those to Gateacre still calling there. BR wanted to stop those entirely, but local opposition prevented that. With no need for six platforms, two become a car park and the station ended up with just one functional platform in 1970, ending up in rather a state of decay. It shut entirely in 1972 and was demolished, the Gateacre services going, along with the whole North Liverpool Extension Line.

The Low Level station, however, still very busy, would have better fortunes - it would become the centre piece of the new Merseyrail network. The station was renovated, the two lines were linked and today Liverpool Central is one of the busiest stations in the UK outside of Greater London. However, the eastern part of the planned loop, including services to Gateacre, fell victim to budget cuts in the late 1970s.

Rochdale is a town in the Greater Manchester area - at the time it was a textiles hub, but that very much declined from the 1950s and the place has acquired a bad reputation. In 2012, a child sex abuse ring involving British Pakistanis "grooming" white girls was convicted in a high-profile trial and the resulting public reaction was, to put it mildly, racially-tinged. It also came out that the town's deceased former MP (who had in fact been knighted), one Cyril Smith, was a paedophile.

"Specials" refer to trains arranged outside the usual timetable, often in connection with some event. These included football excursions (or FOOTEX in BR parlance) carrying fans to away games around the country. In the hooligan-heavy 1970s and 1980s, BR would use older carriages due to the frequency of them getting damaged by drunken supporters, the whole thing becoming a policing headache. Others included various enthusiast-oriented journeys and "Merrymaker" mystery trips, usually to a seaside destination.

The main companies do not really do these today in anything like the numbers they used to, but various private companies have stepped in, including a West Coast Railways Company oddly enough, that provides the rolling stock, locomotives and drivers for the Jacobite tourist service from Fort William to Mailaig. These charter trains can be found operating multiple times a week, being sold through various different companies. Most use heritage rolling stock with vintage steam or diesel engines involved, with a variety of types catering to your tastes, although a big wallet is generally needed. Like at least £100 for standard class without dining and even then the schedule might not be the most convenient; these trains are planned around the regular services and you might have a long wait sitting in sidings for the next bit of your path to be clear.

In any event, the special train would have cost around £5,412 adjusted for inflation. However, a cursory glance suggests it would actually cost far more to do that today - hence the high prices modern "specials" charge passengers.

Signal boxes were required to log the details of trains passing through - the type could be identified by various lights arranged on the front and later the specific service by four-character codes. Today this is done electronically and monitored at larger control centres - older boxes have generally closed, with some being transported to heritage railways for their use. I would assume that the stations not mentioned did not have their own signal box.

In terms of the stations mentioned here, these were on the 1830-opened Liverpool and Manchester Railway, the first intercity railway in the world.

This route is today part of the City Line in the Merseytravel Network - trains are today operated by Northern or TransPenine Express. It was electrified in 2015. For each station in turn...

St Helens Junction: Still open.

Collins Green: Closed 1951.

Earlestown: Still open, despite being listed for closure in the 1963 Beeching Report.

Newton-le-Willows: Still open. Even had a Motorail terminal for a while, but this is long gone.

Kenyon Junction: Closed to passengers 1961, shut entirely 1963. Various locals have called for reopening it.

Barton Moss, closed 1929.

Parliamentary trains are those which railway companies had a legal obligation to operate - basically to provide cheap services for workers. This could mean one train per day on a route. Some did the bare minimum, some did a lot more. With this requirement no longer around, the term has evolved to mean services run at the legal minimum, even as low as one train a week, because it's cheaper to do that rather than go through a closure process. In some cases, the route would be used for engineering work diversions and so it is needed to keep up driver familarity. Current examples include Pilning, which has two trains a week on a Saturday. The most notable is Teeside Airport, which is meant to serve the airport of that name that operates four to six passenger flights a day, but is a fifteen-minute walk away, so getting a bus is much more preferred. This got one train westbound a week until May 2022, when its platform was deemed unsafe and Teeside International Airport refuses to pay for repairs.

Railway companies had their own police forces; these would later come under the British Transport Police.

Many mines and industrial planets had connections to the national network for transporting goods like coal or clay; BR even developed a "Merry-Go-Round" system allowing hoppers to be filled up and emptied while moving at a very slow speed to save time on shunting; newer versions are still in use, despite the coal market having massively declined. Mines would have their own engines - the nationalised National Coal Board kept steam locomotives going until 1982, 14 years after BR stopped using them, with some of their former engines now featuring on preserved lines.

The Vistula river runs through central Poland, including Warsaw.

Many mines would be closed once their seams were worked out to the point of it being now longer economical to run; some are now tourist attractions, at least in limited sections.

France used the guillotine for capital punishment until the abolition of that in 1977. It would also be extensively used, in a slightly different form in the German states, including extensively by the Nazis, until 1966, when East Germany switched to shooting people in the back of the head.

New Caledonia is a French territory in the Southern Pacific that was used as a penal colony at the time; it is currently in a state of political turmoil in a row over expanding the franchise to cover more recent arrivals, something opposed by indigenous groups seeking independence. The proposal has been suspended at time of writing due to France's upcoming elections.

#letters from watson #not sherlock holmes #possibly #history #factoids #trains

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