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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 1 month ago

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So I just saw that you want an ask about plus size reader and f1 driver👀 I'm a Lando Norris fan so can I please ask about him? Maybe plus size reader is his physical therapist and looks after him and makes him happy and he in return is so down bad that if anyone says or does sth disrespectful he is so defensive he always has her back and he shows that he loves her every single minute ❤️ I really hope you have many plus size reader asks cause as a midsize girl myself I really don't see many fics to represent us

All the ways you look at me||Lando Norris x mid size reader

Summary —Y/N lands the job as Lando Norris’s physical therapist, neither of them expects much beyond rehab sessions and recovery plans. But as shared glances turn into inside jokes and late-night conversations, a quiet friendship begins to blossom—one that tiptoes into something deeper to bad they are scared to take the fall into something more than friendship.

Word count—8k

Thank you @fuckoffbard for reading this for me!

A/n—depending on how well this does I’ll do a part two

"Come on. You can do this. It’s your first day meeting everyone; you’ve had plenty of first days, so this should be easy,” Y/n said to herself. She sat in the parking lot of the McLaren Technology Centre, where she was to meet her new team. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and opened her eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.” She opened the door to her car, stepped out, grabbed her iced coffee, badge, and bag, and walked to the building.

The scenery was beautiful. The McLaren Technology Center was secluded from the rest of civilization in a big field hidden behind trees. There were two buildings: the factory itself and the headquarters. That's where she was going.

Walking up the pathway, she admired the bean-shaped building with the little pond that was next to it. It was definitely something she could get used to seeing on a daily basis. Once she was up to the door, she took out her badge and put it up to the scanner to open the door. As the door opened, she was welcomed by the nice, cool air and the beautiful interior of the building.

The lobby was filled with F1 cars and cars that McLaren had produced over the years. To the right of her was the staircase and the elevator that led to the second floor, and in front of her were the trophy cases that held all the trophies that the team had won over the years. The building was truly beautiful with its simple and futuristic design.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Yes, hi, I’m Y/n, I’m the new physical therapist. I’m here for the team meeting. I'm supposed to meet everyone.”

The owner of the voice shook her hand and spoke softly but friendly, “Hello y/n, I’m Sarah, I’m part of the social media team. I’m heading that way so I can help you get there.” Sarah said, shaking Y/n's hand.

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,” Y/n replied with a smile.

Sarah led Y/N through a maze of corridors and open workspaces, the hum of quiet conversations and the occasional keyboard tapping following them as they walked.

“This place is like a spaceship,” Y/n murmured as she looked around.

Sarah laughed. “Right? Wait until you see the simulator room. Total sci-fi vibes.”

They stopped outside a wide conference room with frosted glass panels through the translucent windows. She could see shadows shifting and hear a few muffled voices from inside.

“You’ll be great.” Sarah said, giving her a small nudge, “Come on.”

Y/N took one last calming breath and stepped inside.

The room was already half full—engineers, mechanics, PR staff. A few people turned to glance at her as she entered, their expressions curious but friendly. At the far end of the table, there were two guys, one was balancing his chair on its two back legs while trying and failing to balance his pencil on his nose. The other one had an unimpressed look on his face while trying not to smile or laugh at the other’s antics.

Y/N immediately knew who they were—Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. Even without the uniforms and team gear, their energy gave them away.

She took a moment to observe them from where she stood, unnoticed for now. Lando had that easy, magnetic kind of charm—the type that could dissolve tension with a grin and a well-timed joke. He moved with confidence, expressive hands, and animated eyes, clearly the kind of person who filled a room without even trying.

Next to him, Oscar was a striking contrast. He was quieter, his posture more composed, his words more measured. While Lando spoke with his whole body, Oscar listened with stillness. His eyes were sharp and observing, like he was always a few steps ahead in his head, even when he didn’t say much.

They worked like a natural counterbalance. Lando brought the lightness, Oscar the grounding. It was a rhythm—one teased, the other gave dry comebacks; one stirred things up, and the other reined them in without needing to say much. And somehow, it worked.

“They’re like opposites, but at the same time, they work so well together.” Y/N thought, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Suddenly, she felt a little less nervous. Because despite their differences, there was something oddly comforting about the way they fit together. Like maybe this place wasn’t going to be so intimidating after all.

Especially if Lando kept looking at her the way he just did.

His head tilted slightly like he was trying to place her. His eyes flicked from her face to the badge clipped to her shirt and back up again. Then he smiled—lazy, crooked, and so bright it made her stomach flip.

“You must be the new Physio,” he said, “I was starting to think they were making you up.”

Y/n blinked slightly, off guard by the friendliest tone of his voice.

“Nope, very real. I even brought an iced coffee and everything.” She joked, holding up her iced coffee and giving it a little shake.

A few people chuckled, the tension easing, and Lando's smile widened.

“Then we’re going to get along just fine.”

Zak Brown stood and clapped his hands for attention.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. She’s officially joining us this season as part of the performance and health team—working closely with you, Lando.”

“Lucky me,” Lando muttered with a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully.

“We’ll see how lucky you feel after your first deep tissue session.”

More laughter followed, and a few people around the table gave her nods of approval or polite greetings. Someone even muttered, “Bold move on day one,” with a grin.

As the meeting began and the briefing started, Lando leaned slightly toward her seat, voice low so only she could hear.

“Seriously, though. Welcome. We’re glad to have you.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be here.”

But her heart was racing. Because while she came here expecting professionalism and a great work performance, she hadn’t expected him.

Over the course of the few months that Y/N joined McLaren, she really had made her mark on the team. She and Sarah are quickly becoming friends, the two of you often meeting up for coffee dates and other things that friends do.

Y/N’s office doubled as her Physio room, in the corner was her desk with her laptop and a couple of other personal items that made the space truly hers. On the other side of the room was a table where the mats, foam roller, and other supplies sat, and in the center was the padded table.

Y/n was reviewing Landos' training notes Landos's trainer sent to her tablet when the door creaked open.

“Morning,” came that familiar voice—soft, a little smug, a little sleepy.

She glanced up. “You’re late.”

Lando strolled in like he wasn’t, tossing his water bottle on the bench. “You’re early.”

Y/N raised a brow unimpressed “Try that again but imagine that I haven’t heard it from every cocky athlete I’ve worked with.”

He grinned, “touché”

She nodded towards the mat, “Shoes off, warm-up stretches, let’s go.”

He obeyed, stretching his arms overhead and settling onto the mat with an exaggerated groan. “You’re scarier than my last physio.”

“That’s because your last physio didn’t have to deal with you constantly flirting with him.”

“True. He didn’t look this good, either.” Lando remarked, admiring Y/N’s curves.

God, he would give anything just to hold her—to let his hands rest on her hips, fingers curling around the softness he admired far more than he probably should. She was all curves and comfort and warmth, and it was unfair how often his mind drifted to her when he was supposed to be focused.

He swore she was made for him. It just made sense. His hands were big—meant to anchor, to hold, to fit—and when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine how perfectly she’d settle against him.

His thoughts flicked back to three months ago when they’d trained together outside under the sun. She’d worn those leggings—the ones that clung just right, hugging the shape of her legs, her thighs, her hips. He remembered watching her move, muscles working under soft curves, grace and power woven together. He hadn’t meant to stare. But he did.

And the worst part?

He still remembered how she’d smiled at him afterward. She didn’t even realize the way she knocked the air out of his lungs.

Y/n didn’t even blink when she turned to face him. “Flirting won’t save you from the foam rollers.”

“Damn.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “You are immune.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t. Not even close. But she had a job to do.

Y/N crouched beside him, guiding his leg into position. “How’s the left quad feeling?”

He shifted slightly. “Tight. Not awful, though.”

“Alright. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Her hands moved to his thigh, fingers firm but practiced as she applied pressure, feeling for tension. He stilled a little under her touch, his gaze flickering down to her.

“Are you always this focused?” he asked quietly.

Her brows lifted. “Are you always this chatty during treatment?”

“Only when I’m trying not to think about your hands being on my leg.”

That earned him a warning look, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Behave.”

He smiled—but it was softer this time. Not smug. Not cocky. Just…warm.

For a moment, silence settled between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the AC and the shuffle of movement. She moved around him to adjust his arm, her fingers brushing his skin.

He looked up at her. “You’re good at this.”

She paused. “Thanks. It means a lot. Especially from someone who can’t sit still for longer than a minute.”

He chuckled. “I sit still for you.”

That stopped her. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in his expression made her chest tighten. It wasn’t teasing. It was sincere.

Dangerous, that kind of sincerity.

Y/N cleared her throat and stepped back slightly. “Alright. Upon the table. Let’s check that shoulder mobility.”

Lando obeyed with a faint smirk. “Yes, boss.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks felt warm.

And he noticed. Of course, he noticed. He’d always noticed.

Truth is, Lando loved the way her face flushed, and then she bit her bottom lip trying not to give him the satisfaction that he made her feel this way, she was never successful.

And he found it adorable.

Y/N stepped around the table to check the alignment of Lando’s shoulders, her fingertips pressing lightly along his upper back. “Drop your right shoulder just a bit,” she murmured.

He obeyed, head tilted slightly toward her. “You know, you’re very serious when you’re in work mode.”

“That’s because I am working,” she replied, eyes flicking up toward him.

“Yeah, but like—intensely serious. Like mission control, seriously. I bet you’d threaten to take someone’s kneecaps if they did a stretch wrong.”

She snorted. “I’ve never threatened kneecaps. Hamstrings, though? Fair game.”

Lando grinned at that, leaning back slightly on his elbows, watching her as she made a few notes on her tablet. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I’m a riot,” she said dryly, glancing up. “But only if someone needs help foam rolling their Iliotibial band.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It was.”

He laughed, and for a moment it felt easy—normal. The line between physio and friend blurred slightly in the warmth of their shared amusement.

Y/N set the tablet down and nodded toward the floor again. “Back to the mat. Let’s work on hip mobility.”

He groaned but complied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You just like bossing me around.”

“It’s not that I like it,” she said, kneeling beside him, “It’s that you’d be hopeless without me.”

He blinked up at her with mock offense. “Hopeless? Excuse me—I am an elite athlete.”

“Who forgot how to do a proper glute bridge three weeks ago?”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

Lando gave her an exaggerated glare, then pointed at her. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Oh?” she teased, adjusting his knee with a light touch. “Is that why you’re being so dramatic this morning?”

“No, that’s just who I am.” He gave her a soft grin. “But seriously—I do like working with you. You’re not like the others.”

Y/N paused, hands still on his leg. “Is that a compliment or a red flag?”

“A compliment,” he said, softer this time. “Most people treat me like a brand. You treat me like… I don’t know. A human.”

For a beat, their eyes met again. It wasn’t flirtatious-not-not-not-not-not-not—not really. Just honest.

“I guess I figure you already have enough people telling you what you want to hear,” she said quietly.

His smile widened a little, less cocky now. “You’d tell me if I sucked at something, huh?”

“Absolutely. No hesitation.”

“See?” He gestured vaguely. “Hopeless without you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. She pressed gently on his hip, making him flinch.

“Hey! Abuse!”

“Mobility,” she corrected.

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“Only when you whine.”

He grinned up at her again, and for a second, something warm settled between them. It was subtle. Easy. The beginning of something unspoken.

Once the session was over, Lando dropped onto the bench near the corner of Y/N’s office, sweat dampening the edges of his curls as he reached for his water bottle. Y/N tossed him a clean towel from a nearby shelf.

“Here,” she said, settling onto the floor across from him with her bottle. “Try not to collapse dramatically on my floor next time. I might not be so kind.”

He caught the towel with a grin. “You love it. Gives you an excuse to roll your eyes at me.”

She took a long sip of her water. “You give me plenty of those without nearly fainting mid-stretch.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, that was one time.”

“Twice, actually, and you faked it. Both times,” she replied with a smirk.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

He pointed at her, mock offended. “You and Oscar are going to start a club at this rate.”

“‘The Times Lando Was Wrong’ club? I think there’s already a group chat.”

Lando laughed, head tipping back slightly. “God, you do fit in here.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“I mean it,” he added, more quietly now. “The team likes you. It’s been…lighter since you showed up.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lighter?”

“Yeah. You bring this kind of energy—like, calm but still sharp, you know? It’s a good balance.”

She wasn’t used to compliments like that, especially not ones that sounded so genuine.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “someone’s got to balance your chaos.”

He smiled at that. “You calling me chaotic?”

“I’m calling you exhausting.”

He laughed again, eyes crinkling. “You’re mean.”

“Only to the ones I like.”

He looked at her for a moment—looked. And for once, he didn’t shoot back a flirty line or a joke. Just smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. But then she smiled too, soft and a little surprised.

“Me too.”

They sat in the quiet for a few seconds longer, sipping water, the faint hum of the building in the background. Outside the window, the sun was high, casting soft shadows on the floor.

“I’ll probably regret saying this,” Lando said after a moment, “but you can drag me through those stretches again next time if you want.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised.

“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head—but he was still smiling.

A few days later, Y/N and Sarah sat at an outdoor café nestled on a quiet street in Woking, the warm spring air wrapping around them like a soft sweater. The table was cluttered with two half-drunk iced coffees, a slice of cake they were sharing, and the occasional gust of wind that kept threatening to blow Sarah’s napkin off the table.

“I swear,” Sarah said between bites, “if we keep meeting here, the barista is going to start calling us regulars.”

Y/N grinned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “We already are. The barista knows our order.I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“God, you’re right. That’s dangerous.” Sarah paused to sip her coffee, then gave Y/N a look over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of danger…”

Y/N raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Look who’s here.”

Y/N turned her head—and sure enough, Lando was walking across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, curls a little messy, sunglasses perched on his head. He hadn’t spotted them yet, distracted by something on his phone.

Sarah leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He looks relaxed. Like really relaxed. Must be your influence.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Stop.”

“I’m serious! I’ve worked with him for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this chill during a season. You’re good for him. He listens to you.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s because I threaten him with foam rollers and ice baths.”

Sarah laughed. “Maybe, but it works. You’re a good team, you know?”

Before Y/N could respond, Lando looked up and spotted them.

A wide grin immediately spread across his face, and he jogged the last few steps over to their table.

“Well, well, well,” he greeted, dropping into the empty chair beside Y/N without asking. “Didn’t expect to see you two here. Or should I say, the office dream team?”

Sarah raised her brows. “Crashing girl time? Bold move.”

He shot her a cheeky grin. “What can I say? I live on the edge.”

Y/N nudged his leg with her foot under the table. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Canceling all plans immediately,” he said, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

Y/N bit back a smile, and Sarah just gave her a look—the kind that said this is exactly what I meant.

They chatted for a while, laughter threading easily through the conversation. Lando didn’t even seem to notice how comfortable he looked, slouched in his chair, legs stretched out, occasionally stealing bites of their cake. It felt natural. Uncomplicated.

And when Y/N caught Sarah looking at her with a knowing smirk, she just shook her head with a laugh and looked away.

Late nights had become something of a routine for them now. It started with playful iMessage games—8 Ball, Cup Pong, Darts. A way to unwind after long days. Eventually, the games were followed by texts, then voice notes, then full-blown calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

Y/N had learned a lot about Lando during those calls. How he hated olives but loved olive oil. He always watched one episode too many when he promised he’d go to bed early. How silence didn’t scare him, and how his laughter sometimes sounded like relief.

They’d grown close.

So close when the new season began, and she started to notice him pulling away—she noticed.

He was Lando, still cheeky and warm and kind. But now there was a weight behind his smile. A slump in his shoulders when he thought no one was looking. Most of all, there was tension in how quiet he got when scrolling through his phone, the way his jaw would tighten, thumb hovering over a screen that never seemed to offer good news.

The race hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped. The car was temperamental, the strategy of. The media had been brutal. And Lando… Lando was taking it personally.

It was past midnight when Y/N’s phone buzzed.

Lando: You up?

Y/N: Always. Need to talk or need to be distracted?

It took a minute before the typing bubbles appeared.

Lando: a bit of both. I'm just… tired. Of people. Of messing up. Of feeling like I’m not enough.

Y/N’s heart sank. Without thinking, she called him.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a shaky breath. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. The comments. The press. The expectations. But it’s like… I can’t shut it out this time. Everyone’s already written me off.”

“Lando…” she murmured, shifting on her bed. “You are not what those people say you are. You’ve done more in the past few years than most people ever get close to. You work your ass off. You care. You’re allowed to be disappointed—but not to forget who you are.”

He didn’t speak for a second.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Especially not you.”

She blinked at the ceiling, her heart squeezing. “Hey. You couldn’t let me down even if you tried. I’m here. Always. Whether you’re on pole or P18. That doesn’t change.”

He let out a breath—this time, steadier. “I hate how you always know what to say.”

“That’s because you’re not very mysterious,” she teased gently. “Plus, I’m a genius.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Debatable.”

“Shut up. Let me hype you up.”

Lando grew quiet again, but this time it felt like peace instead of pressure.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said after a beat. “For always answering. For always being… you.”

“Always,” she whispered. “Now get some sleep. I’ll beat your ass at 8 Ball tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Dream on.”

But she heard the smile in his voice, and that was enough.

The paddock buzzed with media, team personnel, and the hum of anticipation. Cameras flashed, journalists circled like hawks, and mechanics moved with quiet urgency. But Y/N had learned to find her pockets of calm. She had her coffee, her notes, and her well-practiced ability to look like she was busier than she was.

She spotted Lando from across the garage.

Cap low, hoodie pulled over his race suit, jaw set.

But when his eyes found hers, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, and his mouth twitched up at one corner.

He made his way over, slipping through the chaos like it didn’t faze him, though she knew better.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice only for her.

“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet.

“You beat me at 8 Ball,” he muttered.

She grinned. “Told you I would. Should’ve let me hype you up before the game, too.”

He laughed under his breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that felt like a win.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, watching his face.

He nodded, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “I did. You helped.”

“Good,” she said. “Now don’t let any of those trolls live rent-free in your head today. You’re here for you. For the team. And maybe a little bit for the drama.”

That pulled a wider smile from him. “You’re better at pep talks than my old sports psych.”

“Probably better looking too,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

He didn’t deny it.

They stood there a beat longer, just existing in each other’s calm before the noise swallowed them whole again.

Will called him over, and Lando straightened up.

“Time to go to work.” He said, turning away.

But before he went, Y/N called for him to come back.

He glanced back at her. “What is it?” He asked.

Y/n bit her bottom lip in the nervous way Lando loved, but he would never admit that, and walked up to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light peck on the cheek.

“For good luck,” she said, flushed.

Lando smiled, and he smiled hard. So hard that it hurt, and he carried that smile out onto the grid.

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in the paddock. Orange flags waved from the grandstands, mechanics were cheering, champagne sprayed somewhere nearby—and Lando stood on top of the world.

He’d done it.

His first win of the season.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It came in waves—the checkered flag, his race engineer yelling in his ears, the blur of the final lap flashing back in his mind. But now, standing next to his car with confetti still drifting down like slow-motion snow, it hit.

And he smiled.

No, he beamed.

Because the first thing he saw when he turned around was her.

Y/N had pushed through the crowd just enough to stand on the edge of the garage, a breathless grin on her face and pride in her eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He jogged straight to her, still in his suit and helmet, sitting on the first-place table stand, and before she could even say a word, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground like she was weightless.

She let out a startled laugh, clinging to his shoulders. “Lando!”

“I did it!” he yelled, spinning her once before setting her back down, still holding her like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“I know! I watched it happen!” she said through a laugh, breath catching at how happy he looked.

He leaned his forehead against hers for a second, grinning like an idiot. “It was a kiss. I’m telling you. You kissed me and boom—podium. Easy math.”

She flushed. “I didn’t say it was that kind of good luck.”

“Too late,” he whispered. “I’m never racing without one again.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too widely to deny how much she cared. “You were brilliant out there.”

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. “You believed in me when I didn’t. I’ll never forget that.”

Her heart stuttered at the sincerity. But before she could answer, cameras started clicking furiously again, someone called his name, and he gave her one last squeeze.

“I gotta go do media stuff—but don’t leave, alright?”

“I won’t.”

He took a step back, still smiling like he’d just been handed the world—and honestly, he kind of had.

And Y/N? She just watched him walk off, her heart full and racing, a little dazed by how much that boy meant to her now.

The party had faded hours ago. The team had cheered, the champagne had flowed, and Lando had done more interviews than he could count. His face hurt from smiling, his voice was half gone, and his suit still smelled faintly of victory and engine oil.

But now… now it was quiet.

Lando stepped out on the rooftop lounge of the hotel wearing a t-shirt and some joggers. The night air was cool against his skin, the concrete still warm from the day’s sun. He wasn’t even sure why he came out here—just needed space, maybe. Air that wasn’t full of flashing lights and praise.

And there she was.

Sitting on one of the lounges, looking up at the stars, sipping from a bottle of water, like she’d been waiting. Or maybe just knew he’d show up eventually.

Y/N looked up and smiled, soft and familiar. “Hey, champ.”

He walked over and dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re still awake?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” She handed him her spare bottle.

He took it, twisted the cap, and drank without question. “Can’t sleep. Still buzzing.”

“Kind of hard to crash after your first win of the season.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound cooler than I do.”

“It is cool. You were incredible, Lando. No one could’ve taken that win from you today.”

He leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the stars above. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

They sat in silence for a moment, their legs stretched out in front of them, ankles nearly touching. Somewhere down the road, a car whooshed by. People were humming in the streets down below.

“You ever wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s ever going to be enough? Like… you do everything right, you win, you prove people wrong—but then there’s always more. More noise. More pressure.”

She looked over at him, eyes steady. “Yeah. I wonder about that a lot. Especially when I see you carry the weight of it like it’s your job, too.”

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just stared ahead, letting her words settle.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone, you know,” she added gently. “Not when I’m around.”

His gaze shifted to her, something raw and open in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Another quiet stretch passed, filled with everything they weren’t saying out loud. And then—

“You’re kind of my favorite person right now,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Just right now?” she teased.

Lando smiled slowly, turning to face her fully. “Alright—maybe longer.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, heart thudding a little too loudly in her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

And they sat there, side by side, under the stars—two friends teetering on the edge of something more. Not ready to fall just yet, but both were wondering what would happen if they did.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends anymore, either.

Sometimes Y/N would catch herself mid-laugh, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, and her stomach would twist. Not in a bad way—just that damn it kind of way. The kind that made her fingers itch to reach for him. To hold his face. To kiss him like she’d imagined one too many times in the dark.

And Lando? He was no better.

There were nights he’d finish a race and instinctively check his phone—not for the media, not even for his team—but for her. Just a little “Proud of you” text with the star emoji she always used. That’s all it took. That one sentence could undo him. He kept screenshots. He reread old messages when he couldn’t sleep. And there were moments, more than he could admit, where he caught himself imagining what it would be like to wake up to her in his bed. Not even for anything explicit—just her, warm and sleepy, stealing the covers and smiling at him through the sunrise.

They hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.

But the tension simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but always there. It was in the way her hand lingered on his back just a second too long. The way his gaze dropped to her lips when she was mid-sentence. The way they always seemed to lean just a little too close when they laughed, like gravity was slowly pulling them together.

And when they hugged now—because they did, often—it wasn’t the quick, polite kind anymore.

It was slow. Intentional. Bodies pressed close. Hands-on waists, fingers at the nape of a neck. Heads tucked into shoulders. His heart was thundering.

Y/N wasn’t sure who would break first.

But sometimes, when he looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, she thought maybe it would be both of them.

But where it truly got complicated… was in the physio room.

There was only so much distance you could keep when your job involved touch.

Y/N was a professional. She’d worked with dozens of athletes. But none of them made her heartbeat do stupid things when she slid her hands down a tight quad or helped them through a stretch. None of them made her pause before every session and breathe, just to stay grounded.

Lando was different.

At first, it was subtle—his breath hitching when her fingers pressed into the muscle at the back of his shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed for a second longer than necessary. The way he’d hum quietly, almost to himself, whenever her hands found the spots that needed working out.

But lately, the air between them had changed.

His eyes lingered when she bent down to adjust his posture. Her fingers hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but want. His body relaxed under her touch in a way that felt like trust. Like surrender.

And sometimes… their touches lingered.

Like that morning when he came in early, hoodie tugged over his curls, voice still raspy with sleep.

She had him lying flat on the padded table, one leg bent, her hand gliding over his thigh to feel the tension. Her other hand braced his knee, her eyes locked on his body as she worked through the tightness.

“You okay?” she asked softly, fingers pausing at the sensitive spot.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Feels good.”

Too good. Too intimate.

She glanced up, and he was already looking at her—eyes soft, lips parted, breath shallow.

It would’ve been so easy. Just a little lean forward. Just one second of bravery.

But then he blinked, and the moment passed. Barely.

Another time, he sat shirtless on the edge of the table, and she stood behind him, helping him stretch out his shoulders. Her hands slid up his back, over the planes of muscle and the little freckles she was trying not to memorize. He leaned back slightly into her touch, head tilting until it nearly rested against her shoulder.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

The air was thick with something unspoken. His hand dropped, fingers brushing against her leg.

It should’ve meant nothing. But it did.

Their sessions grew longer. Not because he needed more treatment, but because neither of them wanted to leave.

Because physio had become the one place where they could be close without questions. Without pressure. Just them. Quiet. Tense. Comfortable. Dangerous.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends either.

And more and more, when Y/N found herself thinking about him—about his laugh, about his hands, about the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—it wasn’t professional.

Not even close.

And Lando? He couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He thought about her when he fell asleep. Dreamed about her touch. Missed her even when they’d just seen each other. He lived for her voice. Her calm. Her presence. Her hands.

He was falling.

They both were.

And one day soon, one of them would break.

Lando had finished P2. A hard-fought, tooth-and-nail race that left his adrenaline spiking and his heart pounding. The kind of race where the sweat felt earned and every muscle in his body ached in the best way.

And when he climbed out of the car and saw Y/N waiting just outside the garage with that quiet smile—smile-the one she saved just for him, it was better than any champagne on the podium.

“You were unreal,” she beamed, reaching for his water bottle, like always.

He leaned in without thinking, resting his forehead against hers for a beat. He was still in his helmet, visor up, and he could feel her breath against his chin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured.

She flushed. He loved it when she flushed.

But before they could say anything else, someone behind them cracked a joke—too loud, too thoughtless.

“…Guess Lando needs extra weight in the garage to balance the car out, huh?”

A pause.

Someone snorted. A second of awkward laughter from a couple of junior engineers nearby. They didn’t mean it maliciously. Just idiots being idiots. The kind who thought fat jokes were still funny.

Y/N didn’t even flinch. She’d learned not to. Instead, she looked away, jaw tight, the smile slipping off her face.

But Lando?

Lando snapped.

He turned so fast that his helmet nearly swung into someone.

“What the hell did you just say?” he barked.

The laughter died instantly.

The guy, the one who’d said it, froze. “I was just—just joking—”

“No. You weren’t. You were being a disrespectful prick,” Lando said, voice sharp, unwavering. “She does more for this team than you ever will. She’s the reason I’m standing here right now with a trophy in reach, and if I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Lando,” Y/N said quietly, her hand brushing his arm. But he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care who you think you are. You want to stay on this team, you treat her with respect. She’s family.”

The word family landed heavily.

Everyone was silent.

The guy mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared fast. The others avoided eye contact, scattering like roaches.

Lando turned back to her, face still flushed with anger, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes softened immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for other people being assholes.”

She looked at him, her throat tight. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be.” He reached out and took her hand, just for a second. But it felt like a lifetime. “You mean too much to me.”

That part slipped out.

Neither of them moved. Not even when Will called for Lando to get to the media.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, voice quiet again. “Don’t disappear, yeah?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

And when he finally walked off, she stood there for a moment longer, hand still tingling from his touch, replaying his words.

You mean too much to me.

Maybe this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

The gym was quiet—unusually so. Just the soft hum of machines, the occasional thud of a dropped weight, and the low murmur of a playlist that neither of them was paying attention to.

Y/N sat on the mat, stretching out Lando’s leg, focused on his hamstring. Or at least pretending to be.

Lando was lying on his back, shirt clinging to him with sweat, one arm slung lazily over his eyes. But she could feel the way his body had gone still under her hands. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just waiting.

Waiting for something to break.

Her fingers moved gently, working the muscle. Slow, practiced, familiar. And yet it felt anything but.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice soft and scratchy from the heat.

Y/N glanced up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just focusing.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because stretching me out is so mentally taxing.”

She gave his leg a push, just enough to make him grunt. “Don’t tempt me to bend it the wrong way.”

That pulled a laugh from him, but even that sounded off.

A beat passed. Another. The air buzzed with something unsaid.

“I meant it, you know,” Lando said suddenly, lowering his arm so he could look at her. “What I said last week. About you.”

She froze, fingers stilling just above his knee.

“Lando…”

“No one’s ever stood up for you like that?” he asked, sitting up slowly. “That’s what you told me.”

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. “People don’t usually think I need it.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “I see how you carry it all. The weight. The pressure. The way you make space for everyone else. I just—I wanted you to know someone’s got your back too.”

Their eyes locked, and everything in the room went still.

Her heart pounded in her ears. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

“I’ll always choose to.”

That hung in the air.

And then she was moving, standing, grabbing a towel, pretending to need a break—but Lando followed and stopped her just short of the water cooler.

He stepped into her space, one hand coming up to brush a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, soft and warm against her skin.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Y/N…” he said, almost like a warning. Almost like a prayer.

She leaned in just slightly, barely a fraction.

But a door slammed in the hallway, laughter echoing down from a nearby group, and they both stepped back at the same time, like the spell had been broken.

She swallowed. “We should… finish the cooldown.”

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes still locked on hers. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as they returned to the mats, neither of them could focus. Her hands still trembled faintly every time they brushed his skin, and he didn’t stop watching her like he’d never seen her before.

And maybe… just maybe… that was the beginning of the end of pretending.

Race weekends didn’t leave much room for downtime, but somehow, Lando always found time to text her.

Lando: u up?

Y/N: classic

Lando: It’s not what it looks like

Y/N: uh huh

Lando: Okay, it’s a little what it looks like

Y/N: insomnia or overthinking?

Lando: both. You?

Y/N: same. Plus hotel pillows suck and Sarah snores.

Lando: Want to come upstairs?

She stared at the message for longer than she’d admit.

Then:

Y/N: I’ll bring the gummy worms.

Y/N smiled to herself as she climbed out of bed, scribbling a quick note for Sarah to let her know where she was going.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside Lando’s hotel room, knocking gently. The door opened almost instantly.

Lando stood there in sweats and a hoodie, his curls a tousled mess, eyes soft in that way they only ever got when he was tired—or when she was near.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, eyeing the bag in her hand.

“I never joke about sugar,” she replied, stepping in.

“Just don’t tell Jon, he’ll flip if he finds out.”

“Don’t worry, your secret's safe with me.” Y/n joked poking Lando lightly on his chest.

He closed the door behind her, the air between them thick with the things they weren’t saying. The things they almost said yesterday.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, legs brushing, the bag of gummy worms between them.

For a while, it was easy. Familiar. Joking about the media circus, roasting each other over their old Spotify-wrapped playlists, comparing race notes with mock-serious expressions. The kind of rhythm that came with trust.

But somewhere between her laughing too hard at one of his impressions and him watching her like she hung the damn moon, the silence started to hum again.

“About yesterday,” Lando said softly.

Y/N looked over at him. He wasn’t smiling now. Just studying her like she was something he wanted to memorize.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, voice quiet.

“I want to,” he replied. “It’s not just what they said. It’s that they thought they could say it. That they thought no one would care.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight.

Lando shifted closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the heat of him. “I care.”

She met his eyes, searching. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect it. You’re kind to me, Lando. And I don’t know what to do with that sometimes.”

He reached out, hesitating only a second before taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Their hands lingered like that—twined and quiet and warm.

Then she laughed under her breath, the sound a little breathless. “You know this is dangerously close to being a rom-com moment.”

“Is it?” he asked, smirking. “We already share gummy worms and trauma. What’s next, joint taxes?”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

And neither of them kissed the other.

But God, it was close.

Closer than it had ever been.

And it was getting harder to pretend they didn’t want more.

The dining area was quiet, tucked into that early hour when most of the paddock was still asleep or off on their morning routines. Y/N sat at a corner table with her usual coffee, toast, and a notebook open beside her.

Lando showed up like he always did lately. No grand entrance, just that familiar presence sliding into the seat across from her, hoodie up, sleepy eyes.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, glancing at the mess of his curls.

“Some,” he said, voice rough with morning. “You?”

“Eventually.” Her mouth quirked. “The sugar crash helped.”

His eyes softened at the memory of gummy worms and everything that nearly happened after. But he didn’t say anything about it—not directly.

Instead, he reached for a slice of toast from her plate, and she didn’t stop him. Their legs brushed under the table. Neither moved.

They talked about the day ahead, strategy notes, and the weather. All the surface-level things that kept them steady. But the air between them was still humming, still warm with the weight of almost.

She caught him watching her once, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his coffee cup. When she looked up, he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Before she could respond, someone slid into the booth beside her.

Sarah.

Y/N blinked. “You’re up early.”

Sarah grinned, setting down her plate. “Early bird gets the paddock pass upgrade.”

She looked between the two of them, and her brows lifted just slightly.

“What?” Y/N asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nothing,” Sarah said innocently. “Just… the tension in this booth could cook my eggs for me.”

Lando choked on his coffee. Y/N elbowed her.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah continued, eyes dancing. “You two are acting like you didn’t almost kiss last night.”

“Sarah!”

“I knew it,” she crowed, pointing her fork at Y/N. “The way you were texting him before bed? Girl. Come on.”

Lando’s ears had gone pink. Y/N looked like she wanted to melt into the booth.

But still, neither of them denied it.

Sarah grinned, looking way too smug for someone holding a half-eaten croissant. “Well, let me know when you two do something about it. I want front-row seats. Or at least to plan the wedding playlist.”

Lando finally laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s relentless.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, fighting her smile. “She’s not wrong, though.”

His eyes met hers, something quiet and serious beneath the teasing.

“No,” he said softly. “She’s not.”

The room was quiet, tucked away from the buzz of the paddock. Just padded floors, low lights, and the occasional thrum of the bass from the nearby garage.

Lando lay on the mat, one arm slung over his eyes, his race suit pulled halfway down to his waist. Y/N knelt beside him, helping him stretch through his usual pre-qualifying routine.

It should’ve been routine by now—she knew the shape of his body like muscle memory. But something about today felt different. Like they’d both woken up with the echo of what could’ve happened the night before still lingering in their skin.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” she murmured, guiding his leg into a deep hamstring stretch.

He let out a breath through his nose, shifting slightly under her touch. “You’re good.”

But his voice was rough, and she could feel the tension—not just in his body, but in the way his fingers flexed slightly every time her hands brushed his thighs, her forearm skimmed his ribs.

He didn’t pull away.

And neither did she.

When she leaned in to adjust his shoulder, her breath hit the side of his neck. He shivered.

“Cold?” she asked, low and teasing.

“No,” he said, and when he looked up at her, his eyes didn’t blink. “Not even a little.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She was straddling one leg, hovering over him, face barely inches away.

It would be so easy.

His hand came up like he might tuck her hair behind her ear or maybe just touch her cheek—he stopped himself.

Barely.

A beat passed. And another.

Then the door creaked open.

“Lando?” Will’s voice broke the spell. “Time to suit up.”

Lando blinked first. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Be right there.”

Y/N rolled off him, trying not to look rattled. Lando stood, tugging his suit back on, eyes flicking to her once more as he paused by the door.

“You coming?” he asked softly.

She nodded, grabbing her clipboard, trying to calm the heat in her chest. “Always.”

He smiled—small, knowing, charged—and disappeared down the hall.

She exhaled hard, gripping the edge of the table.

They were right on the edge of something dangerous and wonderful.

And neither of them had quite decided if they were brave enough to fall.

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reasonsforhope · 4 days ago

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"An AI-equipped foot scanner placed at one’s bedside could be a lifesaving companion to those living with a risk of heart failure.

Developed by Heartfelt Technologies in concert with the UK’s National Institute of Health, the scanner takes 1,800 photos of a person’s two feet and analyzes them for signs of a fluid buildup called oedema, one of three best indicators of oncoming heart failure.

Heart failure occurs when the heart’s inability to pump blood properly results in a buildup of fluid in the lungs and a lack of blood-derived oxygen reaching vital organs.

Dr. Philip Keeling, the lead author on a study debuting the invention who is also a consultant cardiologist at the South Devon National Health Service Foundation Trust, explained why such a device would be a key tool in combating heart failure, something which affects 1 million Brits every year.

“This device detects one of the big three warning signs for people with heart failure before they end up in hospital,” he wrote, according to the BBC.

“Only about half of people admitted to hospital with heart failure currently get assigned an early review by a heart failure nurse who can check to see if they are suffering a harmful build-up of fluid because their heart is not working properly.”

“Amid a shortage of heart failure nurses, a device like this can be like a virtual nurse, tracking people’s health.”

AI IN MEDICINE:

Teens Developed App That Identifies Mouth Cancer–Making Early Diagnosis Easy and Winning $50k for Their School

In 10 Seconds, an AI Model Detects Cancerous Brain Tumors Often Missed During Surgery

After Studying Mammograms, AI Can Detect More Breast Cancers Than Humans–With Fewer False Positives

New AI Smartphone App Accurately Diagnoses Ear Infections and Prevents Unnecessary Antibiotic Use

The study which Dr. Keeling helped run involved 26 patients across five NHS trusts. Alerts given by the device of potential heart failure came between eight and 19 days in advance of a hospitalization, giving a mean prediction time of 13 days, which is enough for measures to be taken that could prevent hospitalizations.

Six hospitalizations occurred during the trial period, and the device accurately predicted 5 of them. 82% of patients decided to keep the device after it ended.

“This small study suggests a simple device could significantly improve outcomes for at-risk patients with heart failure by keeping them out of hospital,” said Dr. Bryan Williams. Chief Scientific and Medical Officer at the British Heart Foundation which was not involved with the study."

-via Good News Network, June 16, 2025

#heart #heart disease #heart failure #england #uk #united kingdom #medical news #public health #ai #analytical ai #cardiology #preventive care #good news #hope

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winkofcharm · 5 days ago

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Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 3

Uhhhhhhhhhh

I'm sorry it's short and kind of jumps around,

but I think you'll love this anyway. tw: blood, swearing

batfam x reader [platonic]

[previous] Stephanie and Damian find the private jet easily enough. It’s in a private hangar at a New York airport, hidden away from public view. From the outside, it looks normal. Not a thing out of place - no signs of forced entry, of a struggle outside. It isn’t until Damian activates the biometric scanner and opens the door that they find anything wrong.

The smell of rotting copper and iron hits them full force. Stephanie is grateful her mask muffles the smell, Damian doesn’t have her luck, and as used to the smell of blood as he is, still finds it too much. However, it’s not just the smell that is too much, it’s the amount as well.

Brown blood, well oxidized, is soaked into the carpet, into the curtains, into the chair by the far window - where it has not soaked in, it has splattered. There are still bright red spots, but only where there is so much that it hasn't yet dried. It is not simply a crime scene, but a horror show.

Damian moves quickly to look for clues, even if it means stepping into a puddle of your blood, he is determined to find anything he can that may lead to you. The chair at the far window is your favourite place to sit, he knows, from your many snapchats from that exact place. No doubt it was where you sat when the attack began, as the blood outlines a body of your size. Beneath that seat he finds his first clue, your phone.

It’s dead, likely having been for several days at least, but if he charges it, he may find some sort of idea or hint as to what may have happened. It’s unlikely you wouldn’t have at least tried to call for help, and he hopes you may have tried to describe your attacker in such an emergency plea.

Stephanie has moved towards the cockpit, the jet is pilotless, fully automated, but there are cameras aboard - just in case. They’ve never really had reason to look over them until now, and she hopes that whoever took you didn’t know about them. Her hope is dashed, when she realizes the cameras had failed. The few moments of footage were of you, sitting quietly as the plane landed and pulled itself into its dedicated hangar. You were on your phone, texting or scrolling, just getting ready to unbuckle and stand when it cuts off.

It’s a clean cut, no static, just a cut to black. There is no sign of who approached the jet from the outer camera, and no sign of you being assaulted on the inner one (which is both a relief and a pain, she didn’t want to see you getting hurt, but then, at least, she would know who did it).

Damian is still in the rear of the plane when she hears it - sirens. All approaching quickly to their location. They need to move quickly, lest they be caught, and investigation hindered. They move as quickly as they can, taking with them your phone, and leave, disappearing into the night - back to Gotham.

Stephanie can’t help but wonder, how, or rather, why, the police were only showing up now. At this exact moment. Why had they not come earlier, but rather once the scene was disturbed? Had it been a trap? A trigger of some sorts they had unknowingly pulled, that had called them? She doesn’t know, but she will find out.

Tim has no idea who you are. He knows of you, knows about you, but knows nothing of who you are as a person. It’s usually an easy job, finding out who holds a grudge against who, but with you it’s nearly impossible. He follows internet trolls, paparazzi reporters, your fellow celebutantes, trying to find anyone that may have hated you, may have held even a drop of enmity - but there’s nothing. He’s used to stalking people, it’s what landed him the role of Robin, after all. He’s able to find out anything, about anyone.

You… you are a perfect mask. Even better than Batman, he surmises - because he was able to track down and identify Batman. He cannot identify you.

There are no scandals, no rumours, no drama or fights or fallouts. You seem to be exactly what you appear. A wealthy philanthropist with a side job of modeling for haute couture brands. He tries to dig deeper, moving on to shitty celebrity gossip blogs that exist only to throw mud - and still, there’s nothing. Perhaps Babs did her job too well, and wiped a little too much from the internet regarding you.

Speaking of Barbara -

Oracle: Check the news

The ping drives him to do as she commanded, and he is overwhelmed immediately.

“Wayne Heir Missing!”

“Gruesome crime scene at centre of Wayne Heir disappearance!”

“Cover up? Wayne family silent as Heir missing for days.”

The headlines are flooding in, and with them come your fans, your friends, your coworkers - all saying the same, that they miss you, hope you’re found safe, that they haven’t heard from you in days but thought it was just a brief get away. In minutes, your pages are flooded with concern - and Tim knows immediately he’ll be in for a long night when his own social media starts getting attention. So does Bruce’s, Dick’s, Damian’s - everyones is starting to be overrun, but unlike the kindness that pours onto yours, he sees the vitriol first hand.

The public is demanding to know why nothing was found earlier, how you could be gone for so long before they noticed, how could they go about their daily lives without a shred of despair regarding your disappearance. Did they not notice? Or did they not care?

Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries stocks are already beginning to plummet. He’s getting calls from every member of the board of each company, the free-fall and ramifications are piling up, and he’s doing his best to ignore the outside world. He’s trying to focus so hard on finding you, that he almost blocks out the alarms.

Reporters are flocking to Wayne Manor, newspapers and tabloids, from The Daily Planet, to the sleaziest of sleazy mags. He tosses his phone aside, and rubs his hands on his face. He and the others had hoped to keep this under wraps, out of public scrutiny for as long as possible and yet, in the 24 hours they had known you were gone, the secret had already been blown.

Tim groans as he pushes away from the Batcomputer, and heads up out of the cave to the main Manor - he’ll have to change, something dark to impress how seriously he was taking your abduction. Bruce is with Dick, dealing with the Red Hood stuff, and Damian is still heading home with Stephanie, so Tim will have to be the one to release a statement.

What will he even say?

“Yeah, no, we had no idea they were gone, and could be dead??” Especially if that amount of blood in the pictures Damian sent over was all yours. “Sorry, I know we look like besties online, but I have no fucking idea what happened?” Not like he had actually laid eyes on you in the month leading up to this. “Half the time I forget they even exist, so how was I supposed to notice???”

Alfred waits for him in the foyer, as Tim puts the finishing touches on his suit. Best to play this as formally as possible, best to lie his ass off and hope no one calls him on it.

Alfred’s eyes are rimmed in red, he hasn’t cried, but he wants to. A stiff upper-lip, Tim thinks, is expected of the man. He wouldn’t blame him, however, if he did cry. Alfred was the closest to you, and everyone knew there was a special bond there. The older man was always extra gentle with you, gave extra care and attention - perhaps to make up for what the rest of them didn’t give. Tim does feel a little guilty in thinking that Alfred’s distress will make whatever snake oil he’s about to sell easier for the press to buy.

They walk side by side down the long drive that leads from the Manors front gates to the actual building itself. The crunch of their footsteps slowly being overwhelmed by the chatter of the reporters waiting for them, and Tim is temporarily blinded when they finally spot him and start snapping pictures. He keeps walking forward, until finally he is in front of the grand gates, with only a few feet between him and them.

He waits for the rapid fire of first questions to die, for the cameras to start rolling and pictures to stop clicking, before beginning his address.

“We were made aware yesterday of the disappearance of one of our own -,” Tim starts, “We have since been made aware that they may have been gone for longer than initially thought. Currently we are working with the police and investigators as they work towards finding them. We are certain they will be found soon, and brought home, and only ask that whoever did this comes forward and releases them.”

It’s an automatic speech, one he’s practiced, but never thought he’d have to ever give. Sure you’d been taken before, they all have, but usually that was solved and you were home within the day, long before any of this sort of attention was demanded.

“We ask that you give us our privacy at this time, and allow us, as a family, to work through this. We appreciate your concern, and please rest assured, that the police are doing all they can.” He finishes his statement, and the flurry of questions and cameras starts up again. It’s only polite to answer a few questions, and will project a better image of the family to do so. He scans over the crowd, trying to decide which reporter he will answer when his eyes land on a familiar face.

Lois Lane stands beside a cameraman for The Daily Planet, her face set in a frown as she listens to Tim speak. She’s met you several times, mostly in passing, but enough to know that whatever happened to you is bad, really, really bad. You’ve always been kind to her, and sweet to Jon whenever he visited Damian. Clark had even brought you home once for a meal after a kidnapping, she remembered how you laughed and smiled, how polite you had been - so when she learned that you had been taken, violently, she had immediately volunteered to be the one sent to Gotham. She studied everything she could on her way, including your latest posts and had only one question -

“Drake, according to their post history, you were the last one to see them -,” She began, but she knew the truth. You and Tim hadn’t spoken in weeks, despite what you had posted. Lois had left her phone number with you the second or third time you’d met, so had Clark, mostly just in case - but you messaged back and forth frequently about little things.

You’d often send her clips of Jon and Damian together, running about in the back of the grounds, but sometimes you’d ask her questions. Questions that let her know everything wasn’t as it seemed. Questions about what to do when you felt ignored, or unwanted. Things a mother or father should have talked to you about, not an almost, but not quite, stranger.

Tim ended up dodging her almost-question, made an excuse about how you had met up shortly before getting on the plane but he hadn’t heard from you since. It was enough to plant a seed in the rest of the reporters though. That maybe you weren’t as close as your posts made you seem, that maybe Tim was lying, or you were. It was enough, Lois decided, and she turned back to her cameraman. They’d leave as soon as this impromptu Q and A was over, and she’d be contacting her husband. Maybe he’d be able to help find you, or at least try and convince the Batman to let him help.

—----------------------------

Jason and Red Hood.

Red Hood and Jason.

His son is alive, alive and filled with rage the likes he has never seen before. Perhaps that is why he took you? For revenge? Another way to throw Bruce’s failings back in his face, to hammer home the point that Bruce has done nothing but hurt those he was meant to protect. He hopes at least that Jason has been kind to you, that your brother may have still held some warmth towards you, despite how he had tried to drive you apart. That Jason may recognize you for what you are, a civilian, an innocent caught in the line of fire.

He has followed his lost son, to a warehouse where the freshly beaten Joker lies, where his son points a gun at his head, and where you, thankfully are not (but where are you?).

Jason lashes out, demands his pound of flesh, demands he kill Joker - but Bruce knows he cannot, that if he were to kill, even once, he would be lost in a flurry of violence and death.

There is no perfect time to ask about you, to demand Jason send you home safe and sound - but he does anyway - forces out the words, demands to know where your brother has taken you, and in doing so, he’s made another mistake.

“The fuck you mean Bruce?” Jason demands, “You think I’d hurt them? That’d I’d go after them just to get to you?” He sees Jason get angrier as he talks, as he realizes that Bruce has lost another kid. “You did it again, didn’t you? You fucking lost another one of us! But unlike me, they’re untrained, they’re weak, because you left them defenseless, and now look at what you’ve done!”

Jason doesn’t have you, never even thought of using you against him. Joker didn’t take you, he had been in Arkham up until this final confrontation. He doesn’t have time to ask anything else about you, not when the clock is ticking. Bruce refuses to kill the Joker, and Jason escapes, leaving him alone.

Joker is brought back to Arkham, and he turns his comms back on, and is overwhelmed immediately by all that has occurred outside his crusade.

You are still gone.

Joker doesn’t have you.

Jason didn’t take you.

The police are swarming the jet.

Reporters are flooding his driveway.

The internet is rife with speculation, with rumours and tales, some of them pointing towards an inside job.

He is a failure.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ocean is warm this time of year, the sand almost burns with the heat. It’s unfortunate you can’t get in the water yet, not until the doctor clears you completely. The scab on your stomach itches as it heals, but at least you can go outside with it covered.

The drink in your hand is sweet, fruity and fresh, just as you like it. A brand new phone, registered in a fake name, in your other hand scrolling rapidly through news site after news site.

A smile plays at your lips.

“Damn,” you whisper, “If I knew it would be this easy, I would have gone girl’d them years ago.”

Tag list:

@holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam @pearlyribbons @bellelamoon @fortunatelydifferentqueen

@randomlyappearingartist @c4xcocoa @whyiseveryuseenametaken @myjumper

@magdalenacarmila @noone1233nobody @bbmgirll @degenerates-posts

@rinkydinkythinky @ithoughtthinks @rtyuy1346 @s1mppp @yokesmam @cssammyyarts

@overlyobsessivefangirl @paastaboi @dakotali @mysh-lynnn @hai-there-how-are-you

@sadeem575 @lettucel0ver

(please let me know if the tag didn't work)

#fanfiction #spinning spinning spun #batfam #neglected reader #batfam x reader #batfamily #reader insert #batman #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #dc batman #dc robin #tim drake #stephanie brown

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dindjarindiaries · 1 year ago

Text

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompts: “You could have died, you know.” “I’m fine. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” and “I’m afraid of losing you, okay?”

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

"Hey! Hey. Stay with me." There was a gentle tap on your cheek that smelled of leather and blaster fire. You groaned and blinked your eyes open, wincing as light caught the silver helmet that leaned over you. "Hey." The modulated voice was even softer that time. "You with me?"

You nodded, grunting as you sat up on your elbows. Din's hands continued to hold the sides of your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as his visor gave you a once-over.

"Easy." His command was gentle, rooted in nothing more than concern as his hands eased their way down to your shoulders. "That was a hell of a blow you took there."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me." You exhaled and began to stand. "We need to get back to the ship."

Din stood with you, one hand on your back and the other holding tight to your hand. If you weren't still somewhat disoriented, your heart would've been pounding at his touch and his proximity. "Only if you're able."

You huffed and raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm fine." You gestured with your head in the direction of the ship. "Let's get going."

Din nodded, drawing his blaster as the two of you began to run to back to the ship. There was no doubt the two of you had already taken care of your attackers, but it never hurt to be cautious. Din, however, was even more on edge than usual, his free hand staying close to you as his visor checked on you more than it did on the way ahead.

It was perhaps the most nervous you had ever seen him.

Once you were on the ship, Din secured the hatch closed behind you, and he wasted no time heading to the cockpit to get you off the planet. You collapsed into the nearest chair and took a few breaths, running your hand over your forehead as a slight ache began to arise. You had known you wouldn't be able to walk away from a detonator blast without at least a little pain.

You were so distracted by these thoughts that you didn't even hear Din return until he was kneeling in front of you with the medpac. You lifted your head at the sight of it and clicked your tongue as you shook your head. "Din, that's really not necessary."

He didn't stop shuffling through the medpac as he answered. "I'd like to make sure." Din paused and glanced up at you. "Please."

You couldn't help giving in to the pure worry in his tone. Your lips stretched in a small smile as you nodded. He returned the gesture and lifted a handheld scanner, using it on various parts of your head, arms, and more to make sure you were free of any critical injures. It time and time again chimed in the negative.

You watched him as he worked, taking note of the way his gloved hand shook as he held the scanner. His free hand was on your knee, and his touch pulsated every once in a while as if he was grounding himself to you over and over again. You furrowed your brow, and once he had completed his scans, you couldn't help speaking on it.

"Din." You reached out for the sides of his helmet, encouraging him to look at you. You searched his visor before nodding firmly. "It's all right."

Din held a breath in his armored chest, his shoulders tensing as his hand on your knee tightened again. His visor fell to study his grasp on you, as if you would fall away if he let go or looked away. After a long pause, he spoke in a voice so strained that it pulled on each of your heartstrings. "You could have died, you know."

You softened even more at that, your thumbs running over his beskar cheeks as you tried to soothe him. "I’m fine. There’s nothing for you to worry about."

Din shook his helmet, lowering it until it was resting against the knee he wasn't still holding. His shoulders rose and fell with each unsteady breath he took. Your softness was exchanged for fierce worry of your own as you ran a hand over his helmet.

"Din." You utterance of his name was just above a whisper. He still remained where he was, practically curled up into you as he clung to you the best he could. "What is it?"

He didn't move even as he answered your question. "I'm afraid."

Your eyes widened at that. You had been convinced that there wasn't a single thing in the galaxy Din Djarin was actually afraid of. He had sure as hell proven that over your time together. "What are you so afraid of?"

Din sighed, lifting his helmet once again so that his visor could face you. His hand ran from your knee to your thigh as if the motion helped him to gain the strength to say the words he was holding so close to his chest. "I’m afraid of losing you, okay?"

You instantly fell apart at his vulnerability. Your brow relaxed as you held his helmet between your hands again and urged him to get closer. The way you moved to the end of the chair helped to close the distance, and soon, you were able to rest your forehead against his helmet. "You won't lose me, Din." You shook your head to emphasize your point. "Not now, not ever."

Din exhaled a troubled breath. "We don't know that." His gloved fingers drummed against your thigh as he fought for strength to go on. "I... have lost so much. It almost feels inevitable. I've put my head down and kept going, but..."

His breath caught in his throat. Your sympathy for him nearly made your eyes well with tears as you waited patiently for him to finish.

"If it were you..." One of Din's hands rose to hold your wrist in place. "I couldn't bear it. Not even the thought of it."

You tried your best to put on a genuine smile for him as you began to reassure him. "I'll be more careful, Din. Okay?" You kissed the center of his visor. "Thank you for sharing this with me. I know it's not easy."

Din huffed, and a wave of relief flowed through you at the evidence of the darkness starting to leave him. "Neither is jumping near a detonator to protect me."

You chuckled, shrugging as your face began to warm. "Well, you would've done the same for me."

Din tilted his helmet at that. "Yeah. In protective armor."

You closed your eyes and savored your closeness. "I guess you'll have to find me my own suit of armor, then."

Din's hand gave your thigh a gentle squeeze. "I'll be your armor."

You reopened your eyes, smiling at him before you wrapped your arms around his neck to embrace him. Your cheek rested upon the cloth around his neck and shoulders as you nodded to yourself. "Perfect."

din djarin tag list: @yorksgirl @zenrobbins0021 @cyaredindjarin @cw80831 @maddiedrmr

#hopefully this makes sense bc i wrote this while like half asleep HAHAHA #i just want to comfort him #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #prompts #dindjarindiaries

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kumasakka · 8 months ago

Text

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❝ 𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 ! ❞

⋆.˚ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. a.shin x reader .

⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. he laid his eyes on you the first time you stepped into the shop and you were a different kind of beauty .

⋆.˚ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. ~0.8k .

⋆.˚ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. eesome — (adj.) pleasing to the eye. written to be fluff, kinda plantonic though. f!reader. crack. written in 3rd pov. spoiler - free. safe for minors! crappy writing ( when was the last time I wrote? ). edited.

　BEAUTIFUL. That was the only thought that crossed Asakura Shin's mind as soon as a beautiful girl set a foot into the store, Sakamoto's store, the self-proclaimed no. 1 safest shop in Japan. It was kinda true though with the legendary, ex-hitman Sakamoto Taro working here, assisted by Asakura Shin himself, it must be the safest shop. Well but come back to the present.

His black eyes followed her figure, unfortunately not being able to catch a glimpse of her face and yet he could already tell that she was a different kind of beauty. She wore an old-fashioned white dress, matching her big white hat made out of sinamay that covered her face while she gracefully carried herself in those cinderella high heels through the whole shop.

Shin would bet that she could probably afford other luxuries in those expensive, extravagant shops, so why was she here? Nonetheless he won't judge. After all, here is a pretty customer. As much as he wanted to ask for her number, he didn't dare to be near her, only waiting behind the counter while gripping onto the wooden table with his sweaty hands. God. He wants to read her mind, but he also didn't want to read her mind.

What if she thinks he's ugly? What if she was thinking bad about him in general? No, no. He will not hear those thoughts voluntarily.

"Excuse me?"

Not wasting a second, Shin immediately lifted his head and parted his lips to answer. "W— hi." he stuttered and greeted her with an easy-going hi as if they were good friends. Not once did Shin feel more embarrassed than right now. Oh god. The heck? He shuts his eyes for a second to calm himself down before opening his eyes again. What was your expression? How he would've loved to finally see her face.

"How can I help you?"

"Oh umm... I'm here to pay for my things, but I assumed you spaced out." her voice was smooth.

But he didn't have much time to think about that fact as his gaze sank down to the counter. Right. "S-Sorry..." he apologized, beet red because of the downright embarrassment while taking the scanner into one hand and the other grabbed the items. The silence was loud. His mind was racing with multiple thoughts while he silently hoped to see her face, wishing that she would lift her head anytime soon before she leaves the shop.

And somehow, god heard his prayers. The woman looked up the next moment, the shadow of her hat covered the upper part of her face. His black eyes met stoic, [e/c] ones. Wow. 'Beautiful.' was his thought—the thought he quietly whispered under his breath. And as soon as he realized that he said it out loud, he quickly looked down to your items again, his face red again, too shy to meet your gaze again.

"T-That makes 3.550¥ in dollar!" Shin said.

The sound of bills and coins being placed on the small silver tray and the rustling of the plastic bag being taken into hands echoed in his ears. "...Thank you for your purchase! Please visit us again." it's a line he says everyday, yet somehow it felt heavier than usual to let those daily words out of his mouth today. Shin didn't dare to meet her gaze again, leaving his head down as he waited for her to leave the shop.

'Cute.' ah, seems like he couldn't help himself but peek into her mind to get a taste of her thoughts. Short after hearing her thoughts, he looked up with slightly widened eyes. Did she just call him cute? "Could you please ring this up too?" she asked and placed a cat keychain on the counter, getting out her purse again. Lost in thoughts, he stood there for a while and stared at the woman. Well, he was staring for too long now.

　BEEP !

"Huh?!" Shin blinked rapidly and watched how she scanned the item herself. "W-What are you doing, ma'am?!"

"I helped myself..." she placed the money on the small silver tray again before she pointed the scanner at him and—

　BEEP !

"Ring yourself up too." he cannot take her serious even though her face showed him plain plainness, the keychain already attached to her keys. "You look like this keychain."

"EHHH?!"

'SHE THINKS I'M CUTE?'

a/n — shin is such a cutie <33

#❨🎐❩ 𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐀 :: shitpost.#sakamoto days #sakamoto days x reader #shin asakura #shin asakura x reader #shin x reader

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

Note

Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao

I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling

“You’re What?!”

501st x Reader

You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.

“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.

You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.

“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.

“Fine. Just tired.”

Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.

That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.

The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.

“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Fives blinked. Then frowned.

“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”

And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.

“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”

“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”

“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.

“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.

Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.

“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.

“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.

Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.

“Is this true?”

You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”

Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”

He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”

The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.

⸻

Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.

“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.

“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.

Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”

“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”

Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”

Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”

You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”

Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”

Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”

“…It’s a cold, sir.”

“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”

By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.

And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?

There was a banner.

“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”

Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.

Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.

Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”

“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.

“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”

Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You might be cold.”

Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.

Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”

Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”

At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.

Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”

“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”

“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”

Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”

“…Why are there six different bowls?”

“We all made you soup.”

“I am not eating six soups.”

“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”

You were 80% sure he made that up.

That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.

“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”

There was even a checklist on your locker:

• No dying

• No hiding symptoms

• Tell Kix everything

• At least try to act mortal

You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.

You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.

You weren’t just better.

You were home.

#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #clone x reader #the clone wars headcanons #clone trooper preferences #501st battalion #501st legion #captain rex tcw #tcw fives #clone trooper echo #jesse tcw #tcw kix

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jellykyunnie · 11 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ Jealous! Lovesick! Jinwoo x Fem! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 042 ✦ ┆・

╰┈➤ ❝ [ You really wanna do this?] ¡! ❞

Hunting had always been a dangerous job, but in your eyes? it's better than an average 9-5 job. You were never really the type to be locked in a simple place. You loved getting into gates just because they inspire you for your next creative projects— Minus the fact hat you have to help transport heavy mana crystals.

Better than nothing, it pays a lot and you get to spoil yourself with things you could only dream of as a child.

As the day comes into a close, your boss hands you your pay for the day and sends you off.

With the heavy envelope in your hands, you cheer happily and rush home where you can shower and dress properly

Despite the fact you're a weak hunter, you still can't help but dress prettily. You were sweating like a pig earlier, and now that you're clean and fresh you're wearing a frilly dress and a cardigan over your shoulders.

After making sure you're looking okay, it's off to the outside world you go.

Your childhood teddy bear made a comeback and you decided you wanted to buy the new big size for it.

The streets of seoul were so alive and crowded, but thankfully the air was extremely refreshing.

When the store finally came into view, you immediately jumped in excitement and dashed inside to where the shelf of the teddy bear was.

The yellow bear was given bigger sizes, and the one you picked is almost as big as your upper torso.

Are you complaining? No of course not! The reason why you worked so hard today is because you wanted this bear specifically.

After fangirling for a bit, you clear your throat and make your way to the cashier where the lady smiles at you politely and scanned the code.

Before you can even reach for your wallet to pay— A hand behind you shot up and offered the cashier a black card.

"I'll pay for the bear," The familiar, handsome voice says. "Please."

"Jinwoo!" You squeak, turning your head to see Jinwoo's familiar face who just threw you a charming smile.

"I told you that if you wanted something, just text me." Jinwoo says, ignoring the cashier who was clearly trembling and out of her wits as Jinwoo tapped his card on the scanner. "Is that so hard to obey, hm?"

"...How did you even find me" You pout.

"You wont shut up about the doll last night and I just so happen to know there's a plushie store nearby your apartment." Jinwoo ruffles your head, just as he always did ever since you two were little. "Come on, quit being a pouty little thing and walk with me"

Jinwoo takes your heavy plushie in his arm, taking your wrist with the other and guided you out of the store.

"H-hey, where are we even going?" You whine, but ultimately just gave in and followed behind Jinwoo.

The two of you walked for a while and eventually reached a relatively peaceful park.

Jinwoo starts chatting you up, asking about your day and how work went. And in turn, he told you about how boring his day is.

Yeah, must be nice to be a powerful hunter now, huh? Everything is relatively nboring for Jinwoo now because it's just so easy now.

"Stay here, I'll get us something to drink." Jinwoo says, handing the plushie to you.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo went to a nearby cornerstore, slightly humming to himself as he starts picking up a few snacks and drinks.

His mind was stuck on you, he is supposed to be doing something productive for today. But after Jinho heard that he was craving to visit you, the boy's face beamed immediately and pushed Jinwoo out of the ahjin guild— Practically kicking out of the building he owns himself and be off.

What was going on in Jinho's head at the time? He can never really know.

But he is thankful anyway, he had always been quite fond of you. Jinwoo has long since had a crush on you, but never once tried to court you. You two grew up together after all.

You probably think of him as your older brother figure.

While him?

Oh Darling,...

When he's with you, the grey skies would turn blue and brilliant. The air would feel even more fresh and lovely. Everything around you would suddenly be seen through rose-colored lenses.

Just as long as you were there, everything was beautiful.

He wanted to give you the world, he wanted to protect you, only him.

You were Jinwoo's salvation.

So long as you are there for him, he'll always come out as the strongest.

Everything is much bearable as long as he knows he would come back to earth greeted by your lovely smile and affections.

Jinwoo wanted nothing more than to protect your precious smile, make sure that tears won't ever threaten to touch that lovely and pretty smile of yours.

What is it that you want? Just tell him and it shall be yours.

Why would you be denied of your own happiness anyway? As long as he is there, you'll never be unhappy. You wont ever be sad.

He will make sure of that.

"..."

Jinwoo pauses in his tracks towards you, his grey eyes turning lilac immediately as he sees you chatting up another man.

He saw that person before in the eyes of his soldiers whom he placed in you. He was one of your colleagues who is acting a little too close with you sometimes.

That bastard is always hovering around you and was icking Jinwoo as of late.

And to dare even appear now when he is having his alone time with you?

Jinwoo's gaze hardened even more when the bastard tried reaching his hand up towards your face.

"Hey," Jinwoo's voice interrupts, immediately startling both you and the man into stopping what he was doing.

He fakes a polite smile, approaching with confident strides, "Ah, a coworker?"

"Mhm, he was passing by and decdied to greet me!" You cheer happily, failing to notice the ever slightly flicker of lilac in Jinwoo's grey eyes.

"Is that so?" Jinwoo hums, giving you the snacks and drink he bought you before reaching his hand up to offer it to the man. "I'm Jinwoo, her friend."

"J-Jinwoo?" The man paled as he shakily accepted his offerm and winced lightly when he felt Jinwoo's tight grip. "U-uhm..."

It was only a small squeeze, really, not enough to break his finger. No, not just yet.

Jinwoo's grey eyes would flicker into a different color, not that you can see so he isn't too worried. He was directly gazing at the man, his stare direct and straightforward.

It was a silent statement to back off.

A silent exchange between men, really.

That should be enough, right?

Jinwoo lets go of his hand and the bastard excuses himself, saying he needs to help his mom back home.

"You were smiling at him," Jinwoo says once the person was far away, his grey eyes coming back as it gazes upon your shorter stature beside him.

"Should I be grumpy then?"

"Pfft," He rolls his eyes, tapping on your nose lightly. "And what if I wanted you to?"

"Hahah, knock it off!" You lightly smack his hand away, making Jinwoo just shake his head in return.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo thought he already warned the bastard enough, wasn't that handshake enough?

he was just checking in on you really, when his shadows picked up the distant conversation of your coworkers saying that the same man should just start making a move on you.

He hasn't been hiding that foolish lovestruck look on his face after all.

Why waste any more time.

"Hahah..." The bastard sheepishly chuckles, scratching his cheek. "I'll ask her out in a bit"

A pit in Jinwoo's stomach dropped, and it wasn't a pleasant one. He was never the jealous type of person anymore after all. After becoming the shadow monarch and getting whatever he desired back then, he stopped yearning for unnecessary thing in exception for you whom he has been pining for forever.

Unlike his little jealousy back then, right now it's as blazing as the fires of hell. He was mad.

It's an unpleasant thing he is feeling.

That man? Really?

What can he do for you?

Fuck around and all?

He doesn't even look like he is willing to move mountains for you.

And if a monster suddenly appears what then? Will that vastard throw himself head first to guarantee your safety?

Can he ever even spoil you?

Will he stay loyal and never break your heart?

Will he never dare to look at another woman once he's yours?

Will he ever make sure you never cry?

It's making Jinwoo's head spin.

And before the bastard can even get your attention— He disappeared.

"..." Jinwoo's eyes would turn purple again, tapping his finger on his throne's arm as the man appeared before he completely startled.

"Wasn't my warning enough?"

"Hunter Sung?" The man trembles, collpasing on the floor as Jinwoo suddenly rose from his seating and approached. "Wait! I-I can explain!!"

"Explain what?" He snarled, his gaze completely cold and ruthless. "That you just attempted to make a move on my girl behind my back? I already shook your hand, wasn't that enough?"

"Please!" He begs, completely scared and about to piss himslef as Jinwoo wrapped his hand around his neck and lifted him up. "Hunter Sung, please!"

"I could kill you right now," Jinwoo tilts his head a bit, his blank look completely deranged. "Or maybe lock you up here in the land of eternal death, torture you, break your your mind, tear you limb by limb and put you back together,... Do you think I can't do any of this?"

"I-I'll stay away!" He cries out, "I-I have a family, my mom!..."

Jinwoo drops him, wiping his hand with a handkerchief as the bastard gasps for air.

"I-I wont touch her! N-no, I'll resign and find another job!" He begs. "Please, please don—"

"No need." Jinwoo scoffs. "Getting jobs these days is hard. If your mom needs you then keep the job,"

"But!—"

"Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No sir!"

Jinwoo gritted his teeth, if it weren;t for the fact this guy had his mom he would have kept him here. Instead, he just waved his hand and the bastard disappeared right before him.

He pace back and forth on the throne room for a while, taking a breather, trying to calm down. Nibbling on his nail even as he just felt so restless and pissed with no way of calming down.

Calming down?

Jinwoo fishes out his phone, it's 6:30 and you probably have clocked out by now.

He gets out of his domain and waited for you in the usual spot he wait in when you finish your shift.

"Jinwoo!" The sound of your voice echoes in his mind when you called out to him. "How come you're here?"

"I was bored" He lies, simply grinning. "Come."

"But I'm sweaty and icky!" You complain.

"Just for a bit, yeah?" He insists, and you in turn only pout.

"Alright, what is it?" You cross your arms.

"Free tomorrow?" He simply says.

"Well, yeah, I don't have a shift" You say. "how come?"

"I'm asking you out, duh" Jinwoo chuckles.

There was silence at first as you tried processing his words.

"Are you serious?" You blurt out, your face turning completely pink.

"Have I ever lied to you, hm?" He muses, leaning down to meet you at eye level.

"N-No, but... I mean..." You fidget, playing with your fingers. "You're an S-ranker.. And I'm... Well."

"I'm Jinwoo, jagiya" He simply says, making you look up at him.

And in those grey eyes is a tender and loving gaze, in those eyes you see that he is silently asking you to not look at him as the most sought after hunter. Not the most powerful man ever to live, not the man who turned his situation from helpless to this, not the man who was always mocked and now basks in the spotlight of fame and wealth— He was asking you to see him as a man who is courting you.

"Yes, you're..." You smile softly and leaned up with your tippy-toes, kissing his cheek gently. "My Jinwoo."

꒰ 🪼 A/N: When I tell you Ilove my monarch so much you don't understand. Jagiya can mean either= Honey or Baby heheh. I love him so much pls I wanna cri. Let me kiss him silly. And btw I'm no longer making the moodboard things because they're tiring and I don't wanna run out of photos to use! I hope u understand ueueueu!!! The Jinwoo cai requests will be up tomorrow that is a promise ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ — All stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

#∞ ₒ ˚ ° 📎— kyunnya speaks #sung jinwoo #solo leveling #sung jin woo #only i level up #solo leveling headcanons #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo headcanons #ore dake level up na ken #‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆— kyunnie's writings

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viixenvi · 1 year ago

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𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 | 18+

Summary: You have been planning to steal some information from the Avengers compound. You successfully break in but what happens when the one person you never wanted to see again ends up catching you?

Characters: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark

Warnings: Torture, fighting, reader gets caught and tied up, heavy make-outs, slight flirting, some oral (Nat receiving), reader leaves Nat high and dry, villain fem!reader (Reader and Nat hate fuck whenever they catch each other guys)

This was not my best work, actually kinda bad and not proofread so forgive mistakes and like forgive me if it's bad I just had this idea weeks ago and decided to actually write it at 3 AM

Minors DNI

It was only a matter of time before you could escape. Sneaking into the Avengers compound was hard, it took weeks of planning and landing a job as a maid.

Stark was always hiring and it was just perfect when you got a call back that you had been selected for the job. Of course, this job came with risks to your plan. If you were suspected at all by any of the avengers you'd be finished. Which is exactly why you had a disguise.

Shape shifting was your specialty. It had just happened oneday, you woke up with powers of some sorts. You had no idea how to control them or how you even got them.

You were hoping this hard drive you were planning to take had the answers to some of your problems. You could only change your appearance, make others see you differently.

The only person you had to avoid at all costs was Natasha. She knew things about you that you hadn't told anyone else. You and her had a long history, one that you prefer not to think about. You had fought her previously, working with Loki. That went down hill fast and you managed to stay low since then.

Now you were definitely going to set off their radars. You have a plan though, you always have a plan.

"Can you get the lab too while you are at it?" Tony asks me as I mop the floor. I look up and nod, giving him a shy smile. He walks away, his phone in his hand.

Perfect excuse to be in his lab. You walk towards the lab, your heart racing. It was time, finally. You felt relieved, it was finally going to be over and you'd never have to see the avengers ever again.

"You are not authorized to enter this area." The voice startles you slightly. J.A.R.V.I.S was a pain to deal with.

"Mr. Stark asked me to mop the lab," You tell him. You hear nothing or a minute before the card scanner beeps with a green light and the doors click. That was surprisingly..easy?

This was too easy, you hesitate for a moment. You glance around the lab before your eyes land on a hard drive. It's the hard drive. No way Tony would just leave this out conveniently, not when he knew there was a chance it would be stolen by anyone.

But it's right there, and you don't think you have another chance. So you slowly walk up to the table, pretending to mop and swiping the drive off the table.

It swiftly makes the journey to your pocket and you walk out of the lab, leaving the mop on the floor. You have no idea how you can get out without at least being detected.

Stark was far from stupid, but your powers deceived him enough. Now all you had to do was fake an emergency and leave. You pick up the phone, pretending to get a call and panicking.

You find Steve in the living room, cleaning his shield off. "Can you please tell Mr. Stark I have to leave? There's a family emergency!" You spit out before he can really react. You are in the elevator as he says he will.

Something about the way he looked at you was confusing. He didn't even ask if everything was alright like you thought he would. If Steve was one thing, he was compassionate.

You knew they knew about your plans, or at least that you were there to steal the drive. As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Natasha is staring right at your face.

"Hello милый," her voice is sweet, just like how it used to be. You stand there for a moment, drinking in her features. You had spent the past weeks avoiding her and you never got the chance to really see her.

"Natasha, any chance you can let me go?" You say, one hand on the back of your neck as you laugh awkwardly. She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. So it's a no.

Her fist raises to your face and you block it, swiping your leg under hers. She falls back and manages to flip onto her feet. You land a punch to her face, which angers her.

She kicks your stomach, causing you to stumble back. Before you can even think, she punches your face. You can feel the blood gushing out of your nose. You wipe it away with your hand while Natasha stands in front of you. She's focused on your face and movements.

You could tell she was analyzing you. You both hadn't fought each other in a while and it was obvious you were holding back. You couldn't get yourself to hurt her.

Natasha runs past you, jumping up off the wall and wrapping her legs around your neck. You pin her arms back and lean down, flipping her over in front of you. She breaks free from your grasp and jumps, spinning and kicking you directly in the face.

You fall over and close your eyes, consciousness barely hanging on. Natasha is a damn good fighter and you could admit it. Natasha hovers over you, pulling the drive out of your pocket.

"Some things don't change," She says just before you black out.

When you finally wake up, pain surges through your body. The familiar metallic taste of blood in your mouth reminds you of what happened.

You move to pull your hands free but it seems they cuffed you with some heavy metal cuffs. They definitely seem to be stopping your powers from being used. You are in a bedroom, which seems to be weird for the team as they have their own interrogation room and cells.

A figure comes into view and you know it's Natasha. "It's funny, you always end up in front of me bound by something," She chuckles. I sigh and close my eyes, the headache pounding in my head is not helping the pain.

"If you are going to kill me, just do it."

Natasha pulls her knife out, pushing the tip under my chin and lifting my head. "Aw, you wound me, baby."

"Don't call me that," You spit, clenching your jaw. You and Natasha always had a love-hate relationship. You were a villain and her job was to kill them.

"Tell me why you need the drive and maybe we can have a little fun," She whispers in your ear. You decide to play along, long enough for her to get you out of these cuffs.

"If I tell you, will you take these cuffs off?" You ask, giving her a defeated look.

"Yes."

"They paid me to take it, said there are plans on it they need. I didn't get any other information. I just know that they can kill me easily." Natasha sits on the chair across from you, spinning her knife in her hand.

"Who?"

"I have no idea. Some alien guy, he's weird looking," You tell her. You try to steady your heartbeat and avoid actions that will tell her you are lying.

Natasha seems to like this answer because she gets up and walks behind you. A moment later, the cuffs are no longer clasped on your hands.

You feel Natasha's hands on your shoulders, gliding down your arms. You almost shiver at her touch. You don't want to play into this, but she has given you no choice.

There's a smile on her face when you spin around, your hands on her waist. Your lips meet hers and the kiss is almost electric. Her lips are soft and you taste the cherry lipgloss.

She pushes you onto the bed but you flip over and get on top of her, unzipping her suit. Her belt is thrown onto the floor, not before you take something out of it.

"Fuck, I need you so bad," You whisper against the skin of her neck. You kiss down it, your warm lips sending shivers down her spine.

Her hands roam your body, pulling up your shirt. You stop her before she can fully take it off. "No, let me take care of your first, baby."

She pulls you into a kiss before you descend down her body, leaving trails of kisses. You pull the rest of the suit down to her ankles, kissing up her thigh.

You reach her lips, kissing them before spreading her legs and pushing your face close. Your tongue glides over her clit, circling it. Natasha moans, lifting her hips up and throwing her head back.

You wanted so badly to finish what you started, but you needed the drive and Natasha wasn't going to distract you again.

So you pull away, crawling on top of her and grabbing her face to kiss her. You carefully place a tazer disk on her neck and get off her before activating it.

Natasha gasps and falls unconscious from the tazer and you cover her up with a blanket. This was payback for the last time she caught you. This was your thing, always leaving the other wanting more. It kept up the attraction.

This time you may have gone too far, but your life depended on getting this drive and you didn't care what you did to get it.

You won this time.

#natasha romanoff #steve rogers #tony stark #natasha x reader #angst #x reader #viixenvi #natasha romanoff smut #natasha x you #black widow x reader #smut #kinda angsty #nat and reader have a complicated past #some smut

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adobe-outdesign · 2 months ago

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pokedex designs review?? :3c

Kanto: Not bad, I like the flip motion and the way the cover tucks into the top part when closed. It feels like it has a LOT of unneeded buttons though.

Johto: It folding up into an old-style phone is neat, but the way it unfolds seems very cumbersome to actually use.

Hoenn: The it sits sideways instead of vertically is a bit weird, but I like the simple practicality of this one a lot, especially the big Pokeball-style button at the top.

Sinnoh: Not entirely sure what the right-hand thing is (scanner?), but once again points for practicality here, even if I like the Hoenn one better from an aesthetic standpoint.

Unova: I hate the fact that these are gendered. Also, not only does the gendering not make sense (why does the "male" on have two screens??? actually these might just be showing them open and closed respectively) but it's hard to figure out how these even work as there's no buttons but it doesn't really seem to be a touchscreen either.

Kalos: This one seems to break the laws of physics so points off for that, but I think the touchscreen phone thing combined with a nice sliding cover is a cool concept, and I like the Pokeball design and the futuristic look.

Alola: Rotom Dex as a character aside, I'm not a big fan of this design because it's hard to figure out how it functions; like, on the other designs you get a feel for how you could pick them up and use them, whereas here that's not really the case. I'm not even sure I would guess this was a Pokedex if there wasn't context attached to it.

Galar/Paldea: Grouping these together because they're basically the same design. I like this better than the SuMo Rotom Dex because these are just phones; it's easy to see how you can use them. However, having the Pokedex as an app rather than a separate device is kind of underwhelming? Like it makes a lot of logical sense, but it also makes it feel less important. If it was a phone but had some cool Pokemon-esq design to it and some more interactivity like the Kalos dex I think that would be a happy compromise. Also, having basically the same design for two gens is disappointing.

#also yes I am aware most of these are styled after consoles and while that's a nice touch I don't think it matters much beyond that #pokemon #pokedex #ask #Anonymous #pokemon reviews #? guess this counts sure

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hatsbuckets · 21 days ago

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What I threw together because I'm currently stuck on a plane because storms :( Airport Headcanons lol

Pairings: Price x Reader. Ghost x Soap. 141 x Reader? Poly141?

Warnings: noonnnee??? Airport. Ghost being a little anxious. Turbulence on a plane but it's all okay! You can infer poly141 or not.

WC: ~1400

✨ Terminal 141 ✨

You’d never seen a group of elite soldiers look more like lost, restless lions in a cage.

Well, maybe not Soap. Soap was currently elbows-deep in a Hudson News kiosk, holding a bag of spicy chips in one hand and a stress ball shaped like the Earth in the other.

“Do we need this?” he asked, half to you, half to the air.

“Do you need it?” Gaz called from a few feet ahead, already halfway through scanning the next digital boarding pass. He didn’t wait for an answer, just smiled that effortless, charming smile at the airline worker who hadn’t even asked him to hurry up. “We’re all set, love, thanks.”

You stood near Price, who—despite being in civilian clothes—somehow looked like he belonged at a war table, not Gate 14A. He had one hand on the strap of your carry-on, the other loosely curled around your fingers.

“Y’alright?” he asked, voice low and steady. It helped, always did.

Ghost was hovering. Not in a bad way, just...watchful. Backpack on one shoulder, a duffel on the other. Your bags, Soap’s bag, and Gaz’s laptop bag. His black medical mask was pulled tight across his face, and he hadn’t spoken since security.

At security, you saw his eyes flick to the body scanner, then to the TSA officer who was already eyeing the man built like a tank in head-to-toe black.

“He’s with us,” Gaz said smoothly, stepping in, ever the diplomat. “Wanna keep the line movin’ huh?”

The TSA agent blinked. Ghost didn’t flinch. You reached forward, calm and easy, and touched Ghost’s elbow.

“C’mon,” you murmured. “Almost through.”

He gave the smallest nod, and stepped forward.

…

Later, waiting at the gate, Soap handed you a bag of snacks bursting with chaos.

“Got you options,” he said proudly, setting it beside you with a wink. “Wasn’t sure if you were in a salty or sweet mood, so I figured—you know—both.”

“Very diplomatic of you,” you teased.

“Thank you. I’m an international delight.”

Price huffed a laugh from where he sat, legs stretched out, your bag under his feet like a human shield. He tilted his head toward you.

“Need anything before we board?”

“Just you,” you said, sliding closer to his side. His arm went around you without hesitation.

Ghost was still standing, eyes on the gate door, fingers tapping slowly against the strap of the bag he hadn’t put down.

Gaz, now fully in Charge of Everyone, walked up behind him. “Mate. Sit. They’ll call boarding soon. And no, you’re not carrying all of them on your own. That’s what the wheels are for.”

“They’ll slow us down.”

“It’s an airport, not a breach and clear. Relax."

Soap stretched out across the chairs, clearly unbothered. “Y’know, this is kinda nice.”

You looked around. You were surrounded by chaos, by noise, by strangers and static announcements and the ever-present beeping of service carts. But then you looked back at your boys.

Yeah. It was nice.

And when they finally called your group to board, it was Gaz who herded you all in. Ghost hovered behind you. Soap carried the spare snacks. Price never let go of your hand.

….

Boarding was easy enough. The little girl in her dad's arms in front of Gaz kept making faces at him. Gaz made them back with enthusiasm. Soap was the one who really laughed though.

The seating arrangement was constructed—to but it one way. Gaz pays extra to be able to pick the best seats, and he picks early enough to get all five tickets at the Exit Row. Ghost takes the window seat without the seat in front of it, the most leg room. Soap takes the seat next to him. Gaz takes the aisle of that row.

You typically take the window seat in the row in front of them. Price takes the seat next to you, the one next to Ghost's feet. But you, Price, and Gaz always find yourselves switching around depending on group needs.

The Captain announced that there's some turbulence on the route, some rain, but nothing major. And your little group is in the air.

…

You knew something was wrong the second the plane dipped, just a subtle drop.

Still, Ghost flinched.

Not loud, not hard, not enough for anyone but someone who knew him to catch it. So, you all did.

You could see him when you turned your head, looking back between the seats. His hand twitched on his thigh. His jaw tightened. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the stillness that wasn’t natural.

The turbulence wasn’t bad, not really. Nothing compared to what he’d seen, literally flying into gunfire. But it was the helplessness of it. The lack of immediate exits, no parachutes to just jump for land. The cramped seats full of bodies. The idea that if something went wrong, none of them could do anything.

Soap turned his hand over on his thigh, an open invitation for Ghost. Ghost took it, and Soap's hand squeezed harder than Ghost's did. Gaz had gone quiet, eyes flicking between the emergency pamphlet and back out the rainy window. Price looked calm, but you caught how often his fingers flexed, one hand curling and uncurling against your knee.

You reached over and placed your hand over his.

He didn’t look at you, just let you hold it.

The plane jolted again. A sharp drop this time.

Soap cursed under his breath. Even Price’s grip tightened around your knee.

"It’s alright," you murmured, trying to be calm for them. "It’s just air pockets. Like waves on the ocean, remember?"

“That’s the problem,” Ghost muttered, voice quiet. “We’re not in the bloody ocean.”

It made Gaz huff, a sharp breath of laughter that cracked the tension just enough.

“I’ll keep you from drownin’, don’t worry.” Gaz offered, lifting his arm to wrap around Soap's shoulders and squeeze Ghost's shoulder. “Got my Red Cross badge and everything.”

“Fuck’s a badge gonna do from 36,000 feet?” Soap muttered.

“Keep your ass warm when we all fall into the Atlantic.”

Price didn’t speak, but when the next shake hit, he gently pushed his arm around your shoulder and whispered, “We’d all float together, then, at least.”

…

The layover came like a mercy. They all spilled out of the gate like tired wolves who'd been out in the cold too long.

You didn’t go far. Just a quiet, out-of-the-way spot near the big windows, where you could see the planes taking off in the distance. You watched Ghost drop into a chair and deflate. He leaned forward, arms on his knees, hands wringing the air.

Soap stood nearby, his hand gently grazing over the back of Ghost's neck. Gaz got everyone water. Price stood behind your chair like a sentry.

“I hate his typ’a flyin’,” Soap muttered, his thumb rubbing circles at the base of Ghost's neck. “Hate it. You can’t even see the bastard flying the thing. For all we know it’s some old man on a Red Bull binge.”

“Statistically,” Gaz said, offering him a bottle, “commercial flying is the safest way to travel.”

“Statistically,” Soap shot back, “my arse.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, from Ghost: “It’s not just the pilot.”

You all looked at him.

He didn’t lift his head. Just kept his eyes on the floor. “If something happens up there… we just watch.”

You knew that feeling. You’d seen it in them after missions gone sideways, in the helplessness that sometimes followed grief. Watching, when you’re built to act, is a special kind of hell.

You moved closer, sitting slowly. Your eyes met Soap’s for a moment, and he offered you a pursed lip smile. Gaz sat beside you, hand on her knee. You leaned into Ghost, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

“We made it,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

You felt him shift. One of his hands ghosted over yours, then settled again in your palm.

Price eventually lowered into the seat across from you. “We’ll take a train next time.”

“Or a boat,” Gaz added.

Soap groaned. “If it’s a cruise, I swear to God—”

You laughed, and this time, they all did too. Even Ghost, just enough to hear it in the shift of his breath.

#started this as just a blurb two days ago and in about an hour it became this so eh #enjoy some domestic boys !#cod #call of duty #tf 141 #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #tf 141 x reader #price x reader

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oddlydescriptive · 2 months ago

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Reset, Chapter Fourteen

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You wake up hating everything.

The light.

Yourself.

Beer.

Beer especially.

Life in general.

The ceiling, for starters- the same one you’ve stared at for months now in your little factory dorm room. The way it’s too close, too bright, too white. Your tongue feels like it’s been dragged across the production floor. Your brain is a dull, pulsing throb- not catastrophic, but persistent. Annoying. Like a reminder that yes, in fact, you drank three whole beers -big beers, mind you- last night. Possibly four. And no, you are not nineteen anymore. You’re also no longer a particularly seasoned drinker after three months of nothing more than an occasional, polite glass of white wine or champagne over business dinners.

Oh my God. What even was last night?

The call. Sure. Great. Dream-fulfilling, life-altering, seat-securing moment, and yeah, you’re happy, thrilled, all that. Whatever. Fine.

The beers- fine. Maybe a little fast, maybe one too many, but whatever. You earned it.

But the rest?

The jukebox.

The laughing.

The fucking kneeling.

The staring.

Jesus Christ, the staring.

You groan out loud and flop onto your side like you can physically wiggle away from the memory. Like maybe if you press your cheek against the cool wall and hold perfectly still, time will rewind just far enough to let you unlive the last thirty seconds before you caught Max Verstappen watching you like he’d never seen a person before.

And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“God,” you mumble to the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” No one answers.

You feel yourself heat from the inside out, not with embarrassment exactly- more like offense. How dare he. How dare you, honestly. Getting punchy in the haze of cheap pilsners and vintage ABBA.

You throw the blanket off like it’s personally offended you and swing your legs to the floor. You’ve got a flight to Brazil. You’re going with the team. To sign the contract. To smile and wave and pretend you’re not still mildly hungover from a bunch of £5 pilsner and the world's stupidest standoff.

You feel disgusting, so you dress accordingly- real clothes. Overcompensate. High-waisted trousers, clean blouse, light makeup, hair pinned into something neat. The kind of outfit that says: I have my shit together, even if your brain feels like it was run over by the taxi cab that deposits you on the sidewalk of Heathrow.

Check-in is quick. Security is quicker. One checked bag. One backpack. That’s it.

No drama. No questions. No fire suit. No helmet. No gear bag stuffed within an inch of it’s life. No extra team apparel shoved between a neck brace and your HANS device. No holding up your backpack with two fingers while someone roots through your bag- Miss, is this a lithium battery? You blink as you clear the last scanner, almost suspicious of how easy it was.

Nothing about your luggage says racer. Because you’re on the other side of it. The side that had gear packed and sent before you even had to question it.

British Airways out of Terminal 3. First class. Direct. No layovers. That alone feels like a fever dream. Your seat was booked by someone else, paid for with a team card you’ve never even seen. No expense report, no hustle, no sideways phone calls, no backdoor travel codes that you begborrowstole from dark corners of the internet or schmoozed from a customer service agent. Just: here’s your itinerary. Have a nice flight. God, you don’t want to know what a 12 hour notice first-class flight to Brazil costs. Probably more than is in your checking account.

You’re not used to that.

Thanks to the ticket and the Amex Platinum your dad insists on keeping you listed under- for emergencies only, babygirl, I mean it- you’ve got access to multiple lounges. You spent the entire cab ride over scrolling r/heathrow and watching lounge reviews on YouTube like a psychopath. The Cathay Pacific First Class Lounge came out on top.

Small. Quiet. Mood lighting. Made-to-order noodles.

You take the elevator up, nod politely to the concierge, smile too wide- because you’re still not used to being let into these places without having to explain yourself- and step inside.

Instant exhale. The rest of the airport vanishes like someone hit mute. Carpet under your boots. Leather chairs soft enough to make you want to sleep for a week. It’s small. Quiet. Dim in a deliberate, expensive way. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for silence, just assumes it.

You still don’t love traveling. The flights, the time zones, the disorienting lights of arrivals halls in cities that don’t know your name yet.

But the lounges?

God, yes.

You’re not new to lounges. You’ve practically got a doctorate in them. Back in America- especially during your Indy days- you were the undisputed queen of squeezing every drop out of a Priority Pass guest allowance. You learned how to hustle your way through them. Flash the card, assess your options, and above all- come prepared. Water battle. Tupperware. Ziplocs.

The trick was never about getting in, even if your greasy fingernails and stained pit polos did earn you a side-eye or three. The trick was about what you did once you were there.

Eat fast. Use everything. Fill your water bottle with their fancy cucumber water or designer espresso- yes, sir- three lavender oat milk lattes. Yes. Three. Load up your Tupperware when nobody was looking. Slip some goods in your backpack, if the snacks were pre-packaged. Grab an extra banana. Swipe a few granola bars.

It wasn’t about greed or gluttony or some deep-seated kleptomania. It was about strategy. It was about survival.

It was about landing in a town you didn’t pick, at a time you didn’t agree to, with zero food options except for -maybe, possibly- one terrifying “grill” next to the motel that definitely wasn’t making its money from selling food.

Fuck you, Steam Corners, Ohio.

You and six of the pit guys got in at a respectable 9 p.m.- not even late by race weekend standards- and found the entire town locked down tighter than a Sunday church. No grocery stores. No drive-thrus. The bar across the street had plywood in the windows and hadn’t looked like it had been open since the 2008 recession. So you all ended up huddled around a vending machine in the lobby, shoving wrinkled dollar bills into it like it held a prayer. You walked away with beef jerky sticks, off-brand chips, and a melted chocolate bar you had to scrape off the inside of the wrapper with your teeth.

That night, you learned two things:

Always carry your own fork.

Lounge leftovers could mean the difference between starving and not.

So no- it wasn’t indulgence. It was about having something edible by the time you hit the motel roulette in whatever town hadn’t updated its Yelp listings since 2011.

This time, you’re not the exception. You’re on the manifest. It’s disorienting. Not wrong. Just... new.

It used to feel like cheating.

Now it just feels... strange. Now someone is bringing you a menu with hand-pulled noodles and duck broth and you’re not even plotting how to smuggle leftovers into your carry-on. Now there’s no hustle. No sleight of hand. Just you. A seat. A name on the list.

You’ve been in lounges before. Dozens. But never like this. Never without the need to justify it- to earn it. To sneak, to scavenge, to prepare for whatever Mid-western hellscape waited for you in Indy.

Eventually, your boarding group is called. First. Naturally.

You hesitate, just for a second, then rise, sling your backpack over one shoulder, and thank the lounge attendant with the kind of southern politeness that refuses to die even under duress. Your legs move automatically. Your brain’s still catching up.

You walk past the crowd at the gate- past the boarding lane packed with families and couples and the guy who’s holding his neck pillow like it’s going to save him from the cramps that come with a transatlantic flight- and head straight through the First Class lane like you’ve been doing it for years.

One scan. A nod. “Welcome aboard, Miss.”

The jet bridge is the same as always. Too cold. Too bright. Smells faintly of metal and carpet glue. You walk it like a runway you didn’t ask for.

And then-

Left turn. And suddenly, you’re not in an airplane. You’re in another world.

Your seat isn’t a seat. It’s a capsule. A private, high-walled cocoon of brushed aluminum and butter-soft leather, wide enough to stretch in and deep enough to disappear into. There’s a pillow. A mattress pad. A console. A welcome card with your name handwritten in actual ink. Real pen ink. That someone wrote with their hand.

You take one cautious step in, and then another. Sit down like you expect it to vanish beneath you.

It doesn’t.

It cradles you. It welcomes you. It instantly forgives every cheap red-eye and Greyhound bus you’ve ever endured.

A flight attendant offers to hang your jacket. Another one brings you a hot towel. There’s a glass of champagne waiting on a tray like it missed you. You’re pretty sure you just heard someone order caviar. On a plane.

You start poking around, careful but curious- fingertips skating over unfamiliar buttons, compartments, sleek metallic seams. One panel flips open with a click. Another releases a drawer with a blanket folded military tight. You find the noise-canceling headphones. The amenity kit. The menu.

And then- curious, stupid, a little drunk on luxury- you press a button without reading the label.

Whirrr.

The divider wall between you and the next seat begins to descend. Oh no. No no no no no.

“Shit- ” you whisper, eyes widening as the panel hums down, smooth as silk and definitely not stopping until it hits the bottom. Abort, abort, ABORT. You fumble, jabbing the button again like that’s going to make the wall rise faster- or erase the last five seconds entirely. You’re halfway out of your seat, stammering out a panicked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- ”

And then the divider finishes its glide- and you’re staring directly into the seat next to you.

George Russell blinks. Then smiles. “Oh,” he says, like he’s amused and already halfway into being polite. “Hello.”

You freeze, still hovering over the console like you’ve been caught rewiring the aircraft. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, then comes out all at once: “I didn’t mean to do that.”

He laughs, easy and warm. “That’s alright. I was wondering when I’d get to say hello.”

And just like that, you're caught. Trapped somewhere between mortification and high-altitude diplomacy. You freeze. Because of course it’s someone you know. Because of course it’s someone from work.

And just like that, you shift. Shoulders back. Jaw loose. Smile calibrated. You sit like someone who’s been in first class before. Who’s tired of the champagne. Who rolls her eyes at warmed towels. Who belongs here.

“Hi,” you say, light and charming, like that button press wasn’t a small social catastrophe. “God, sorry about the- ” you gesture vaguely at the console, at the divider that just revealed way too much. “Didn’t realize it actually worked. Total accident.” Like you’ve been here before. Like you didn’t even expect it to work. Like you’ve been here enough to pick out the flaws. Nice. Smooth.

George lets out a polite laugh. “No harm done.” He adjusts slightly in his seat, still watching you with that carefully unreadable expression. “Nice surprise, really.”

You mirror his posture- effortless, elegant, like the seat wasn’t a mini theme park of compartments and features five minutes ago. “Wasn’t expecting company either,” you say. “But hey. Better than sitting next to someone who takes their shoes off before takeoff.”

He smiles at that. “True. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you for British Airways.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

George lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug. “Just assumed Red Bull would have you flying private or something.” You laugh- easy, breezy, Covergirl, like that thought hadn’t just sent a minor wave of panic rolling through your ribcage.

“Oh, sure,” you say. “Maybe next season.”

And he nods, seemingly satisfied. No comment. No follow-up. Just that watchful, polite quiet that makes your skin itch, just a little. You sink deeper into your seat, legs angled, hands loose in your lap. You sip your Coke like you’ve had a hundred of them up here. You make a mental note to google BA first class etiquette when you land, just to be safe.

He studies you for a moment longer. Not invasive, just… curious. “I haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he says, like it’s a memory worth revisiting.

You smile. Professional. Clean. “Briefly. Podium.”

“I remember,” George says. “You disappeared in the cool down room, no?”

You hum. “Yeah, I… wasn’t feeling great.” Which is a much classier way of saying: I threw up everything but my teeth five minutes before they handed me the champagne.

He nods slowly, still watching you. Not too intently. Just… enough. “You looked strong,” he says.

You smile again, automatic. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause. Measured. Warm. And then he shifts, smoothing his hand along the armrest. “I take it you’re headed to São Paulo with the rest of us?”

You nod. “Team stuff. Press. Just tagging along.”

He tilts his head. “Tagging along?”

“Support role,” you say smoothly. “A few meetings. A little visibility.”

George doesn’t press. He just offers a small nod and turns forward again. Still smiling. Still perfectly mannered. But you can feel it.

The curiosity. The mild surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to fit in here. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to be this composed.

And you’ll be damned if you let him find out how new this is. You’ve never flown first class in your life. You still don’t know what half the buttons on this seat do. But George Russell won’t be the one to find that out. Not today. Not ever.

The divider stays down for a while.

You didn’t mean to leave it that way. But George doesn’t seem in any rush to raise it again, and you’re not about to be the one to imply conversation with a Mercedes driver isn’t worth having.

Besides, it’s... not bad. He’s not loud. Not nosy. Just casually curious in that very British way- polite questions shaped like compliments, wrapped in neutral observations. “So,” he says, somewhere over the Atlantic, after you’ve finished your meal and quietly declined the warm chocolate tart, “contract up for review soon, isn’t it?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

“Something like that,” you say, smiling into your glass.

He doesn’t push. Just nods like that’s exactly what he expected. There’s no point in pretending he hasn’t heard the rumors. But the AlphaTauri deal isn’t public yet, and you’re neck deep in and NDA, and even if you weren’t- you haven’t even told your mom. Fuck if you’re going to tell George before Marissa LeChriste. You still have some fear of God.

He turns back to his tray, wipes a crumb off the corner with a napkin, and says- like it’s nothing- “Toto and Susie mentioned you the other night.”

Your hand stills slightly on the stem of your glass. “Oh?”

“Susie said she’s been looking to get in touch. Formula Women Academy.”

“Really?” you ask, careful not to sound too surprised. “I didn’t know.” Try not to turn your nose up too fast. No ma’am- you are not racing the sideshow, noble as it might be. Susie Wolff has another thing coming if she thinks you’re interested in racing old money’s daughters in F4 cars.

George offers a polite little shrug. “Said you’d dropped off the map a bit this season. Thought you might be interested in some involvement. Media appearances, mentoring. That sort of thing.” Oh. Okay. Not driving, then. Fair enough.

You hesitate. Only a second. Then: “Yeah. That’d be great.” He pulls out his phone- new, shiny, no case- and passed it to you. You type in your number, save it under something innocuous, and hand it back with that same even smile.

“Consider it done.”

It’s quiet after that.

He cues up a film. You do the same. Occasionally, one of you makes a comment- a subtle glance, a half-smile, a dry joke passed just loud enough to carry across the shared space. Nothing that would bother a stranger. Nothing that would call attention.

The divider goes up once, midway through the flight. Not with finality. Just... a pause. An unspoken “we’ve said enough for now.” You don’t take it personally.

Hours later, after sleep and a half-watched documentary, it hums back down again. You murmur something about the snack service, and George agrees that, yes, the ice cream really is decent. You’re both groggy, faces soft from sleep, too disarmed to be fully guarded. There’s no bond here. Not really. Just a quiet agreement that being pleasant is… pleasant.

And when you land in São Paulo, it’s George who speaks to the driver first. Who casually says you’re headed to the same hotel. Who doesn’t offer- just assumes you’ll share the car.

You slide in beside him. Thank him, just barely above a whisper. Outside, the city rolls by in flickers of orange streetlight and fogged glass. Inside, you sit tall. Hands folded over your phone. Skin warm from too many hours of recirculated air.

You’ve never felt more legitimate. You’ve never felt more out of place.

After check-in, you offer George a polite nod, a gentle expression of thanks- something neat, polished, gentle- as you part ways. You throw your bags down in the corner, not the closet, and head back downstairs in search of some food. You skip the hotel restaurant.

It’s too glossy, too curated, full of white linen and waitstaff who look like they’ve been coached not to make eye contact. The menu’s in three languages and somehow still vague. You’re not in the mood for vague. You want comfort. Eleven hours in proximity of George Russel, pretending you’re someone who absolutely understands how to read wine notes, and you’re done. You’re tapped. The endurance of your soft smile has reached its absolute limit.

Instead, you find a street vendor a half block down. Open cart. A line of locals seven deep. The smell hits you halfway down the block- charred meat, cilantro, lime. You don’t even ask questions. Just hold up three fingers and exchange a few crumpled reais. He hands you a few hot skewers wrapped in butcher paper and a paper boat of what looks to be fried potatoes.

Hell yeah. You eat the first skewer on the walk back to the hotel.

And it tastes like home. Not even the flavors, per se, just the simplicity of it. Like spice and salt and honest money. Like county fairs and brandings and barbeques and long days that end in dusty tailgates. Like normal people.

Back at the hotel, you don’t go upstairs. Not yet. You settle into the corner of the lobby with your tablet balanced on your knee. One earbud in. Head low. Film pulled up- public stuff, just YouTube- past Brazil races, lap analyses, old helmet cams. Nothing you’d get into trouble for watching out in the open.

You’ve seen most of it before, but that’s not the point. It’s not about learning. Not anymore. It’s about rhythm. Sound. Familiarity. The weight of tires in your ears. Food tastes better when it’s accompanied by a racecar, and that’s just a fact. Can’t argue with the facts.

You’re not hiding. Not even a little. You’re just… re-centering. Letting the ebb and flow of the world, the people, the evening move around you like a river coursing around a stone. People watch. Enjoy a few more hours of relative anonymity in this city while you still have it. As soon as the contract news breaks it’s going to be another feeding frenzy of interviews, cameras, pictures, soundbytes.

But right now, you’re still a normal person, eating a normal meal, doing normal things. And that’s nice.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

They’re halfway back from dinner when it happens.

The three of them- Max, Lando, and Danny- trailing through the hotel’s wide, dim lobby, stomachs full, conversation lazy. Lando’s half-telling a story about a rental car disaster in Dubai. Danny keeps interrupting, loudly, adding fake details just to hear himself talk. Max isn’t really listening. Just nodding occasionally, arms crossed, eyes drifting. He’s thinking Barcelona should be able to beat out Osasuna tonight. Hopefully.

The restaurant glow fades behind them. Soft jazz filters through the lobby speakers like an afterthought. The elevator’s still a good fifteen meters away when Danny suddenly stops short.

“Hey!” he says, like he’s just spotted a long-lost friend across a train station platform. “That’s her, right?” Max follows his gaze, already knowing exactly who he means.

You’re curled into a corner of the lounge, half-lit by the warm, low lighting, legs folded under you, tablet balanced on your knees, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. One earbud in. Lost in your own world.

Trying not to be noticed.

Which, of course, means Danny notices immediately.

Max doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to, because Danny’s already moving. Like an over-eager puppy let off the lead at a dog park. Arms too loose, stride too confident, smile already forming. He drops into the armchair next to yours like it belongs to him. “You’re real!” he crows. “Jesus, I thought maybe you’d evaporated.”

You look up, a little startled- but only for a second. Then the switch flips. Max watches it. That thing you do.

That warm, lightning-fast pivot. The way your shoulders square and your posture tightens- not defensive, just rehearsed. Professional. Polished. It’s your PR mask, clean and seamless, the one you’ve worn in sponsor rooms and press pens and garage interviews where everyone’s already decided what kind of girl you are before you open your mouth.

The one that pisses him off.

Your smile clicks into place, pleasant and untouchable. “Hi, Danny,” you say, voice dry and careful, clipped just enough to keep things neutral.

And then Danny Ricciardo- human chaos engine, adult golden retriever- grins like you’ve just handed him the keys to a convertible. “Hi, Danny,” he mimics back, voice all exaggerated smoothness. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be fast and good-looking. Bit rude, honestly.”

Your mask cracks instantly. Not subtly. Not in stages. Just- gone. Danny has that effect on people.

You laugh.

And not the clipped, controlled thing you offer when someone says something mildly inflammatory in a media pen. Not the gentle sound you offer when a sponsor cracks a joke that’s not as funny as they think it is. This is… loud. From your chest. Full-bodied and real.

Max feels his stomach twist like someone just yanked the steering wheel too hard.

You say something- he can’t hear it- and Danny throws his head back and howls like you’ve just told him the world’s funniest line. And just like that, you’re off.

You shift in your chair, leaning forward, one elbow on your knee, gesturing now with both hands like you’re trying to tell him five stories at once. Danny keeps pace effortlessly, already pointing to your tablet like he belongs there, like he was invited. You tilt the screen toward him without hesitation.

You two are obnoxious. Cringey. Instant combustion in human form. You talk with your hands. You talk a lot. You match Danny’s energy in real time, and that’s saying something. Like you’ve got the same outlet. Like you're wired into the same kind of stupidity.

It’s not flirting.

It’s worse.

It’s compatibility.

You’re not trying. That’s the worst part. You’re not doing anything performative. You’re just existing, and somehow you’re funny, magnetic, loud, and completely unfazed by Danny’s hurricane enthusiasm.

Max watches. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s not jealous. He’s not angry. Just… disoriented. Because he’s never seen you like this. So bright. So open. So uninterested in guarding yourself. This you is a stranger entirely, except Max doesn’t know any version of you well enough to understand what is and isn’t manufactured.

And worse- you like him. Danny. Immediately. Loudly. You’re already chattering about something Max can’t hear- something about a street vendor and suspicious meat and strange men with grills- and Danny’s practically drooling over whatever you brought back with you from outside.

And then Danny takes your fork. Max can’t tell if you offered it or if Danny just took it, but it’s in his hand, and then his mouth, and then he’s moaning like he’s never eaten before.

“Oh my God,” Danny says, chewing, dramatic as hell. “This is insane. Where did you get this?”

You shrug, smirking. “Sidewalk cart. Didn’t speak a word of English. Definitely wasn’t licensed. I trusted him completely.” He eats it. You let him. Neither of you blinks.

Seriously?

Danny too?

“Jesus, take a fucking breath,” Max mutters under his breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “Dumbass.”

It’s not like he expected restraint- this is Danny, after all- but something about the immediacy of it is almost offensive. Max hasn’t seen him this animated since the last time someone lost a bet with Danny and ended up in a tattoo parlor.

And now he’s here, absolutely in his element, double-dipping conversation and eye contact like he’s known you for a decade.

Gross.

Whatever. Max doesn’t bother approaching. Just stays planted, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold.

Danny’s not serious. He can’t be. He never is. He’ll say anything if it gets a laugh and everything if it gets attention. He flirts with dogs and baristas and traffic cones if they smile at him first. He’ll forget about this by tomorrow.

Still- Max shifts his weight. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say a word. Lando sidles up next to him with a soda in one hand and a stupid grin already forming. “You think they’re getting on, huh?” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the chaos in the corner.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t have to. He exhales hard through his nose, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“They look and sound stupid,” he mutters.You and Danny are still talking over each other, bouncing jokes like tennis balls. Your laugh has gotten louder, like you’re not in the middle of a four-star hotel lobby, and Danny is eating it up.

Lando snorts and waves his hand at the two of you like he doesn’t have the words for it. Extrovert-on-extrovert extravaganza, in a way that only people from countries that don’t believe in inside voices or taking turns to speak can be.

“I mean, come on,” Max adds, sharper now, “she’s American, he’s Australian. Of course the volume doubles. You put two dogs in a room, they bark louder. Doesn’t mean they’re communicating.” He says it like a fact. Like he’s explaining gravity.

And in his mind, that’s that.

Danny will burn out in ten minutes. You’ll get bored. And Max will go upstairs with the boys, watch the Barcelona match in peace, maybe crack a beer and yell at the screen. Life will return to normal.

But then he hears it.

Danny: “You should come up.”

And Max’s heart stops. His head snaps toward the group just in time to see Danny half-sitting on the arm of your chair, holding a water bottle in one hand and gesturing toward the elevators with the other.

“We’re watching the Barcelona game,” he says, all grin, all ease. “Lando’s already in, a few of the others, right Max?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You should come. Hang out.” Max goes still.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “With you guys?”

Danny shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’re already out, you’re already fed, and you’re way too interesting to be stuck down here watching race film alone like some weird little robot.”

Max feels something in his chest go cold. Because this was not the plan. No. Nonono. The plan was just the guys. Just the match. Just noise and a drink and the comfort of knowing nothing unexpected would happen.

And now?

Now you’re coming upstairs.

To Danny’s suite.

To the same room where Max was planning to take off his shoes and stretch out on the floor and complain about passing accuracy and not think about you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t protest.

But internally, he’s screaming.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’ve tucked yourself into the corner of the couch like it’s instinct. Knees pulled up. Hands folded. Half watching, half not. The suite filled up, and fast- Lando, Max, Carlos, Charles, Fernando, Danny- shoulders crammed together, half-eaten snacks on the table, bottles of beer already sweating onto coasters.

Everyone’s locked in on the screen.

Except you.

You’ve never really gotten soccer. Football. Whatever. You know the rules, kind of. Understand the basics, mostly. But the obsession? The tribal loyalty, the screaming at the screen like your voice might physically change the outcome? Not really. You’re not bored. You’re just… not about it. You’ve never been a soccer girl. You’re a ranch kid with a race car problem. This isn’t your arena.

You keep quiet. Not shy, exactly. Just aware.

You’re the outsider in a room of heavyweights. Guys with race wins, titles, legacy. And it’s not that you can’t belong in this room- it’s just... not the night to prove it. You know better than to force your way into a rhythm you don’t know the beat of. So you stay quiet.

Still, it’s… nice. In the way background noise sometimes is. The rhythm of the match, the dull commentary, the occasional groan or cheer when someone misses or makes a goal. The way Carlos keeps ejecting himself from the couch and pacing around the room is entertaining, if nothing else.

But Danny-

Danny doesn’t leave you to drift.

He slides into the cushion next to you. Casual. One foot on the coffee table, beer dangling between two fingers, eyes half on the screen. “Y’right?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… not really a soccer girl. Football. Whatever.”

That gets a small grin out of him. “Yeah? What kind of girl are you then?”

You narrow your eyes. “If you’re trying to make that sound flirty, it’s failing spectacularly.”

Danny lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Promise. I’ve hit my limit for the night. Just makin’ conversation.” You believe him. He’s settled now. Less animated. Less golden retriever at the dog park. Just Danny. And for once, it doesn’t feel like small talk.

“So where’s home?” Danny asks. “Proper home. Not the Europe version.”

You shift in your seat a little, glance at the game, then back at him. “Washington.”

He blinks. “As in… D.C.?”

You snort. “God, no. State. Eastern side. Not the rain and coffee shops. The hot, dry, endless wheat field side.”

Danny squints. “Washington has a hot side?”

“Yep. Lotta people don’t realize it. It’s farmland. Orchards. Sunburns in April.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Still doesn’t explain the accent.”

You smile a little, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

He grins. “No offense, but I’ve met, like, three people from Washington and none of ‘em sound like they wanna offer me iced tea on a porch swing.”

You laugh. “My mom’s from Texas. Proper Southern girl. Real pearls-and-praise-the-Lord energy. I did most of my junior career down there. Close to her family. Think it just… rubbed off.”

Danny raises a brow. “Rubbed off?”

You shrug. “Accents are sticky. You spend your formative years getting yelled at in one, it sticks. Plus, the sponsors love it.”

He leans in a little, grinning. “Oh yeah? Bit of drawl, a little ‘yes sir’- all part of the package?”

“Exactly,” you say, deadpan. “It’s branding.”

Danny chuckles, voice warm and easy. “God. That’s grim.”

You smirk. “That’s motorsport.”

He tips his beer toward you like a salute. “Well, for what it’s worth, it works.”

You smirk sideways at him. The noise of the game swells behind you- cheering, commentary, the scrape of someone’s bottle against the table- but it all feels distant. Muted. Like you’re sitting just slightly outside of it all. By choice.

Danny shifts beside you, slow and casual, his elbow sliding along the back of the couch until his arm drapes behind you- not touching, just resting there like it belongs.

His voice drops a little. Softer now. “So… you miss it? Home?” You glance at him, surprised he asked. Not because it’s invasive. It’s not. Just that no one ever really does. Not like that. Not in a way that feels like they care about the answer.

You hesitate. But something about his face- open, kind, not trying too hard- makes it feel okay. “Yeah,” you admit. “A lot more than I thought I would.”

You twist the edge of your sleeve between your fingers, the screen across the room blurring into background noise. “I miss the quiet. The space. My family.”

Danny doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give you that look- the one people give when they’re trying to relate but don’t actually understand. He just nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t think I would, this much,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ve lived off the ranch more than on it for the better part of ten years- but it was still just a plane ticket and a half day of flying away. I was so ready for this. But… now that I’m here…” You trail off. Shrug.

He finishes it for you. “Now it feels like you left a part of you behind.”

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “Something like that.”

Danny leans back, eyes on the screen but not really watching. “I felt like that my first year in Europe. Had this flat in some beige building in Nogaro. No heating worth a damn, weird neighbors. I was flying out every other week, chasing the next thing. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. Just felt… off.”

You steal another look at him, and this time he’s not grinning. Not teasing. Just steady.

“I missed my mum’s garden,” he adds. “Didn’t realize that until I walked past someone cutting rosemary and nearly lost my shit.”

You laugh- quietly. Soft. “Not the rosemary,” you say.

“The rosemary,” he repeats, mock solemn. “It’s always the little stuff.”

You smile. Small. Real. And for once, no one tries to poke it. No one rushes to fill the silence or turn it into a joke. Danny just… stays there. Still and steady. One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch like he’s holding space without needing to claim any of it.

Not fixing anything. Just there.

The moment hovers. Not long- just long enough to register. Long enough to feel it bloom in your chest, slow and unfamiliar. Something soft. Something warm. Something you forgot you missed. It’s nice. Too nice. Like maybe- just maybe- you could feel that way again. Let your guard down. Be a person instead of a weapon.

Which is precisely when Danny kills it.

Not cruelly. Not even consciously. Just- swerves. He nods toward the TV with a grin already tugging at his mouth. “So. Still not a soccer fan?”

And just like that- it’s gone. The warmth. The ache. The weight.

It snaps closed around you like a door slamming shut, and you blink as the air shifts. Like someone’s poured a pitcher of cold water straight down your spine. You try to recover fast. You’re good at that. Exhale a soft laugh. “Not really. But I am glad you call it soccer.”

He grins, all bright mischief again, like the last sixty seconds never happened.

And you? You pull the softness back where it belongs. Out of sight. Out of reach.

He grins- bigger now, looser. “Yeah, that won’t last.” You arch a brow, suspicious. He nods, too solemn to be trustworthy. “No, seriously. Stay here long enough and one day you’ll be screamin’ about offsides and actin’ like you were born wearin’ cleats. Swear it’s in the water.”

You scoff. “Doubt it.”

“Sorry to tell ya,” he says, raising his drink. “It’s a slow infection. No symptoms. One day you just wake up with a favorite team and an enemy for life.”

You laugh, and it surprises you that you’re not still stinging from the gear change in moods. It’s easy. Thoughtless. Like your body didn’t ask permission first. You shake your head, still smiling, something soft catching behind your ribs.

It’s not a big conversation. It’s not terribly deep, at least not for long. But it’s real. And it’s the first time in a long time someone’s asked about your life- not your stats, your sim times, your strategy. You.

And it didn’t feel like a test. Didn’t feel like small talk. Even if it was just a moment.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

This was a super natural chapter to write- I love this character set and all the things it's going to reveal about 66 and who she is and what her needs are and why Max and her do work so well once they're together. And it's just nice to get into the part of the story where she gets to form real relationships that are all diverse and multi-dimensional and serve different purposes. We get to build her a rich personal life that helps ground her and shape her as she steps into this new stage of her life! As always, I am shamelessly pandering for your interaction in the comments and asks- helps me stay motivated and find passion in the fic :)

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv33 #max vertsappen fic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

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