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oscpstri · 6 days ago

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the chase | antonelli

antonelli x fem rbr driver!reader, 8,9k

kimi antonelli was always behind you— in the standings, in the starting grid, in your mirrors. everywhere you looked, the curly-headed mop was always there. but while you had a scowl on your face, he enjoyed every moment.

INCLUDES: soft rivals to lovers, SOFT RIVALRY OKAY, reader is a RED BULL driver, use of y/n, set in 2025 but definitely not an accurate timeline, profanity, kimi being a cutie, imagine seb and lewis type rs, this one is not as slow as the max one swear, inaccurate depictions of media day and the press conferences

NOTE: inspired by ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. i think this is my favorite idea out of all of the oneshots in this series. i hope i was able to do it justice. kimi is a cutie (and is talented as hell) and i claim him as my second pick of the rookie litter. congrats to kimi for canada podium! not proof read

( moments series | more KA12 )

People are usually haunted by nightmares— scarring images that keep them up at night, their mind playing tricks on them. Some perceive these as spiders, drowning, losing a loved one. You, on the other hand, are haunted by a singular curly-headed, brown-eyed, Italian who so happened to go by the name of Kimi Antonelli.

You and Kimi weren't exactly Rosberg and Hamilton in terms of rivalry, more 'he pushed me, I pushed him back, he pushed me off the track'. The both of you would never go out of your way to deliberately throw each other off, but if it happened then you wouldn't exactly be apologetic about it either.

This rivalry had been going on ever since the both of you were teammates in Formula 2. While Kimi raced under the Mercedes Junior Programme, you raced under the Red Bull Junior Programme. This called for the development of two very talented, very fast, and very competitive drivers. You finished fifth in the standings and Kimi was right behind you in sixth. And that's how it always was— even until now.

The teams make their way out of the grid— signifying the countdown to your debut Formula 1 race. Your eyes flicker to your side mirror, spotting the annoyingly familiar Mercedes of your former teammate. You qualified P15— not the best start. Kimi, of course, qualified right behind you. He seemed to notice your gaze and stuck his hand out from the top of his halo, waving at you before locking his gaze back in front of him. You roll your eyes at this from under your helmet, only gripping your steering wheel tighter as the red lights start to bounce to life.

This was what you had always dreamed off. And before you knew it, it was lights out and away you did go.

As you cross your first corner, you spot a car coming from behind. You give space out of etiquette, then freeze when you notice car number 12 slip right in front of you. You weren't about to let him have this, not when you were always slightly better than Kimi in everything— qualifying, points, wins.

You were stuck behind Kimi for a few laps, but you were tailing him like your life depended on it. Kimi might have successfully overtaken you, but you weren't about to go down without a fight. You were practically taunting him through his mirrors, taking in every move he made as he bounced around the track defending you. And he enjoyed every moment of it.

Coming up to the chicane, you slightly take your foot off the throttle. Not enough to back off but enough to make Kimi think that you were. He takes the bait, defending the usual racing line. And that's when you put your skills to good use. You go late on the breaks, hugging that outer line as much as physics would allow it, and the car twitches. Kimi jolts in surprise, not expecting the risky move so early on in the game. But then he scoffs once— not in anger, but in recognition. He should've known you would do that— you always did.

You were already past— risky, bold, barely within track limits— but past. You glance at your mirror, noticing the Mercedes get smaller as you push your car to its fastest.

You were going to finish ahead of him again and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Your car comes to a halt in parc fermé. P4 for a debut race wasn't bad, especially when Kimi Antonelli consistently haunted you for the whole two hours. As you jump out, you notice your former teammate moving towards you, helmet in hand and a boyish smirk on his face.

"Good first race," he greets, a shimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You beat me."

You look at him and quirk your eyebrow, expression deadpan. "I always do."

He breaks out into a larger grin before leaving towards the media pen. You shake your head at his antics, sighing unsurprised. You and Kimi were always like this— playful, rivals, next to each other. You were both polar opposites in terms of personality: Kimi was boyish, bouncy, always had a smile on his face. You were relaxed, quiet, masking no emotions. When the both of you were teammates in Formula 2, the media dubbed you as the 'modern day Seb and Kimi'— where he was Seb and you were the iceman himself.

Of course the beauty of Kimi Räikkönen was the fact that he only ever broke down his walls for Sebastian Vettel himself. And this dynamic was perfectly mirrored with you and your former teammate.

As you made it into the media pen, you are quickly directed to the long line of journalists and news reporters ahead. People asked about your feelings towards your debut race, the strategy you used to get to P4 from P15, almost kissing the podium, being the only female driver in Formula 1. All of which were questions you already knew the answers to, prompting you to reply with simple answers that satisfied the question but left them wanting more.

"What can you say about that divebomb move you did on Kimi in Turn 1? That was pretty risky, especially for your debut race."

You blink slowly, pursing your lips as you ponder on the question. "It was risky but calculated. You do what you have to do to be ahead."

The journalist nods at your answer. "Speaking of, are we going to be seeing more of the rivalry you and Kimi have? Or is that something we left back in F2?"

As the mic is pointed back to you, you shrug your shoulders. "I don't know. If he's still as good as he was in Formula 2 then we will."

And before the reporter could ask any more questions, you nod your head curtly and walk away.

Another race week, another round of media obligations. If you weren't a rookie and scared to be sacked barely ten races in, you would probably have already called in sick today to avoid as much of it as possible.

You could appreciate the good questions— the ones about tire strategy, mentality going into the race weekend, initial feelings as you embark on your second ever F1 race. But you could not care less for the stupid ones— one time in F2, someone asked you what your teammate smelled like. You could assure them that you weren't going to be that close to Kimi for you to get a whiff of his perfume.

The Italian only giggled at the question, and when he was asked the same he simply shrugged and replied: "Like apples."

Your perfume was raspberry.

The sea of reporters were already sat down by the time you made it into the room. Your initial plan was to be as late as possible— less time, less questions asked. Of course, you didn't account for the fact that your manager would be banging on your door before your alarm even went off.

The only spot left was on the far-end of the couch next to Max— you weren't complaining. As you sat down, you place the microphone on your lap and the circus begins. You honestly zoned out for a while, the reporters going for Max and Lewis first until a question was brought to your attention.

"Kimi, we've seen since Formula 2 that you've always finished behind Y/N— does this frustrate or motivate you?"

You're brought back to the room at the mention of your name, eyes scanning for the reporter through the brim of your hat.

"Well..." You look to Kimi once he starts talking. The both of you share a look that causes you to smirk lightly and him to smile small. You lower your head at this, fidgeting with the wire that was connected to your microphone.

"It definitely motivates me," he starts, looking back towards the reporter. "I don't think I've ever been frustrated at this fact."

You look up once again, one eyebrow raised at your rival's answer. He looks back at you with a cheeky smile, the same one he always gives you after a question is thrown about the both of you.

Max and Lewis only looked back and forth between the opposite ends of the couch. They didn't really know what was happening, nor do they fully understand the dynamic, but they found it entertaining nonetheless. The reporters did the same, entranced in the child-like tension that comfortably fit in the middle of you and Kimi. They probably even forgot that two world champions were sitting right in the middle of the couch.

"We were in the same car in F2 but it was clear who handled it better," Kimi adds on, tone as if he was stating the obvious. "I mean... she finished ahead of me in the standings so who's surprised."

The sea of reporters chuckle at this, captivated by the rookie's charm. You swear you even heard Max mumble 'just like you and Seb' to Lewis as they both had grins on their face.

The same journalist picks up the microphone, stretching a hand towards you. "Y/N? Anything to add?"

You blink twice before bringing the microphone to your lips, a small smirk settling onto your face. The crowd seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what you were going to say. Even Max and Lewis did the same.

"Kimi said it best," you start. "He's good, but I'm better."

Fifth race of the season and Kimi was still hot on your tail. The cheeky banter that the two of you had was still prevalent at every media day. Kimi saying you were good at defending, you saying Kimi was good at attacking. It was a back and forth of snarky comments yet respectful compliments on the other's driving— something the media found absolutely entertaining.

You and Kimi almost crashed in Qualifying and the paddock buzzed with eagerness to see what would happen. While you stormed off towards Kimi's car to confront him, the Italian only looked at you with a smirk on his face. His eyes shimmered at your anger, finding the insults you were throwing him amusing.

You had managed to snag P8 on the starting grid, Kimi still behind you in P7. Which is why the both of you were chasing each other for most of the race. It's like the rest of the drivers didn't even matter, because the only person you were fighting was each other. If you led, Kimi would overtake you. If Kimi led, you would fight back.

It's lap 55 and the both of you were still playing tag in your cars. This game starts to irritate you, especially when you were so close to the end of the race. Kimi was in front of you. You almost kissed his rear wing a few times which caused a few angry radio messages from the man himself. He was defending like crazy, not giving you the space or time to do anything about the position you were in.

Until he slows down. Which catches you off-guard, until your eyes narrow. You knew exactly what game this guy was playing.

"Brilliant," you mutter under your breath, trying your best not to just push him off the track due to sheer annoyance.

You were now side by side the Mercedes of driver number 12, heading into the part of the track that is crucial towards who could take the lead between the two of you.

The both of you were going insanely slow, trying your hardest not to be the leading car when the both of you reach the DRS zone. You're getting radio messages from the team telling you to stop what you are doing to avoid a penalty. Toto was probably aging 5 years due to this stunt his rookie was pulling.

"Y/N, there's a car behind the both of you. I suggest you get on with it."

You hear the radio message loud and clear, but you didn't budge. The both of you were going 120 in a 200 zone, posing a great risk to the other drivers who were coming up behind you two.

"Fuck it." You push your foot on the pedal, now in front of Kimi. He reacts to your throttle and goes quick as well, only barely skimming your rear wing.

He was going fast, and you knew that you could play this to your advantage to get DRS. And you did exactly that. Because as soon as you could tell that Kimi had faster pace than you, you take your foot off the throttle and watch as he leads once the both of you reach the DRS zone.

"DRS available, Y/N. That was risky. Never do that ever again."

You smirk victorious at the radio message, immediately opening up your DRS and passing the Italian with ease.

"All in a day's work."

You go on to finish the race in P5, Kimi staggering behind you in P6.

The garage buzzes with post-race exhaustion. You’re perched on a fold-out chair, helmet off, hair a mess, wrists wrapped in cooling packs. Your race suit is unzipped halfway, the navy blue fireproofs clinging to your skin uncomfortably. Someone left a fan on nearby, but it’s doing little to cool the heat radiating off your back.

You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. Until—

"Didn’t think I’d see the great Y/N Y/L/N icing her wrists like a rookie," a familiar voice teases.

Your eyes crack open to find Kimi Antonelli leaning against the doorframe, still in full race gear. He hasn’t even unzipped his suit yet, cheeks flushed from the heat and eyes practically glowing with mischief. The blue Mercedes hat sat atop his head, doing little to calm down the curls he hid underneath.

You scoff, too tired to play along— though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. "You were in front of me for a long time today. Nice job."

He grins. "Yeah, until you decided to pull that DRS crap."

You chuck a balled-up cooling wrap at him. He dodges it easily, like he’s used to you trying to hit him with things. "You started it."

"Had to win over you somehow." He shrugs, finally stepping inside. He squats in front of you like you’re the car he’s inspecting.

You blink at his wording. You hate that your chest tightens a little, a swell of butterflies threatening to spill in your stomach. His tone softens, eyes flickering briefly to your hands. "Seriously though. You okay?"

You narrow your eyes at him. For a moment, he’s not teasing. Not pulling the rival crap you both have always stuck to since you were in Prema. You shrug. "Just sore. I've had worse."

He stays crouched a beat longer before standing, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan. "Well, sore or not, we’ve got rookie PR in ten. Don’t forget to act like you hate me."

You roll your eyes. "I don’t have to act. You’re exhausting."

Kimi winks. “And yet, you keep chasing me.”

You scoff again but can’t help the grin that slips. "Need I remind you that you're always behind me?"

He shakes his head at your words, turning on his heel. You grab your hat and fall into step beside him as you both head toward the paddock media tent.

"Next time I slow down for DRS, you're going to have to thank me for the free position."

You roll your eyes at his words, adjusting the hat on your head. "I still despise you, Antonelli."

"I know. You've said that since last year."

It was media day yet again and the press conference that came with it was routine— one of those long, slightly tedious panels where all the drivers are lined up behind nameplates, small mic stands individually distributed while trying not to say anything too controversial.

But of course, you and Kimi couldn’t help yourselves.

The sweet interaction you both had behind closed doors last week was long forgotten as the new week rolls around. A fresh set of snarky comments and huffed comebacks rally between the both of you, not caring about the situation you were currently in.

You’re seated two spots apart, with Ollie between you. He looks increasingly alarmed with every back-and-forth exchange. Isack, seated on Kimi’s other side, is trying to hide his laugh behind his water bottle.

"Y/N, what did you think of Kimi’s defensive driving last weekend?" one reporter asks, already smiling like she knows exactly what answer she’s going to get.

You raise an eyebrow, your tone dry. "Defensive driving? More like dangerous driving. He almost brake-checked me into next week."

Kimi huffs dramatically, leaning over in front of Ollie. "Maybe if you weren’t so glued to my rear wing all the time, you wouldn’t have to worry about it."

You blink, then tilt your head. "That's why I'm normally in front of you. You're too slow"

There’s a beat of silence then several muffled laughs. Someone lets out an audible, “God.”

Ollie glances at the moderator helplessly. "Are we allowed to separate them?"

The moderator tries to push forward, but the tension on your side of the panel is unmistakable— sharp enough to cut through the usual PR fluff.

And then, finally, someone asks it.

"Y/N. Kimi. With all this... whatever this is— are you two actually rivals, or is there something more going on here?"

The question lands with a heavy pause. Everyone stares. Charles almost chokes on his water. Lando turns to Oscar like did they just say that?

Your hand tightens slightly around the mic. You glance at Kimi, who’s already grinning like the devil. He raises one eyebrow.

"Well?" he prompts, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Are we rivals?"

You stare at him for a beat. Then smirk, voice monotonous. "We’re not friends, if that’s what you’re asking."

Kimi nods, all mock-serious. "Yeah. She just likes yelling at me, and I like overtaking her."

You roll your eyes at his comments.

Someone in the room coughs out a laugh. The moderator tries, and fails, to move on.

Max mutters something to Charles, who’s very obviously trying not to burst into laughter. Lewis just leans back, watching the two of you like you’re the most entertaining part of his day.

And that’s how the moment ends— no answer, no clarification. Just you and Kimi sitting in your chairs, pretending nothing happened, as if you didn’t just throw the entire room into confused, romantic-tension-filled chaos.

The press conference rolls on, awkward laughter still lingering from the last question. The moderator tries to redirect— asks a question about tire strategy for the upcoming street circuit. Kimi answers smoothly, then it’s passed to you.

“Y/N, are you confident in your tire management heading into the race weekend?”

You nod, keeping your tone cool. "Confident enough to keep my car ahead of Kimi’s... again."

Kimi lets out the most dramatic sigh. "You say that like you don’t spend every lap checking your mirrors for me."

You don’t even look at him this time. "What can I say? You’re hard to ignore when you're that close and that annoying."

Ollie audibly groans. "Oh my god, will one of you just say it?"

Everyone turns to look at him. He throws his hands in the air. "You’re not rivals. You're flirting. This is so much worse than I thought."

Lewis nods from two seats down beside him, arms crossed. "I’ve raced against Seb and Mark. This is different. This is… soft."

Fernando deadpans, "Yeah. Seb never smiled like that when Mark shoved him off the track."

Lando leans forward, mic dangerously close to his mouth. "Just blink twice if you're in denial."

Kimi only shrugs, smile tugging at his lips. "I don’t deny anything. She’s the one who keeps pretending I’m not her favorite opponent."

You roll your eyes, but you’re biting back a smile. "Opponent is the key word there, Antonelli."

The room erupts in laughter. Teasing the youngest in the grid proved to be entertaining. Even the moderator gives up, leaning back with a sigh as the press completely loses control.

George speaks up from the far end, sounding thoroughly done.

"No, see, this is what we’re talking about. That? That tone? That’s not ‘opponent’ talk, that’s ‘I-know-his-star-sign-and-how-he-takes-his-coffee’ talk.”

One reporter manages to recover enough to ask: "So… any final clarification? Rivalry or—?"

You and Kimi answer at the exact same time.

"Rivals."

"Something more."

Everyone gasps like they’re in a high school cafeteria.

You blink, slowly turning your head toward him. Kimi just flashes you that boyish, smug smile.

"What?" he says innocently. "You said it yourself— I’m hard to ignore."

The press conference ends with the moderator’s desperate attempt to bring order and the sound of thirty cameras still clicking. You and Kimi stand from your spot behind the table, still pretending everything’s normal even though you basically declared war and something else entirely on live TV.

You're barely five steps into the hallway behind the media room when a hand tugs on your sleeve.

"Okay. Stop. You. You’re not going anywhere."

It’s Lando, planted dead center in the corridor like a traffic cone in papaya. "You two need to talk. Or confess. Or kiss. Or crash. Honestly, I don’t care anymore, but this 'are-they-or-aren’t-they' is draining. Entertaining! But come on, man."

Oscar appears right behind him, arms folded. "Yeah. I’d say 'get a room' but apparently you’ve got like… a whole media room watching instead."

George leans against the wall, ever the instigator. "This is honestly more tense than when Lewis threw that hat at Nico."

Kimi just blinks at them. "You’re all very dramatic."

You deadpan. "You literally fake-yawned during my answer so I’d look at you."

Max walks by eating something from catering. "You’re both unhinged. If I have to hear "I’m always ahead of him" and 'I'm better than her' one more time, I’m crashing you both out myself."

Lewis appears like a wise dad who’s so done. "Look. I love a good rivalry. Keeps things interesting. But this— this is a rom-com in race suits. Either admit you like each other or we’re making a group chat intervention."

Liam gives you a pointed look. "Don’t even try to act cool. I’ve seen you soft-launch him on your story."

Your eyes widen. "That was his helmet."

"Exactly."

The hallway fills with groans and mock outrage as Kimi chuckles beside you, fully basking in the chaos. You glance up at him, exasperated, but the grin on his face is all boyish charm and zero apology.

He leans just a little closer, voice low. "Told you we’re not subtle anymore."

You shake your head, muttering, "You’re insufferable."

He winks. "But you like it."

And yeah— maybe you do.

Race day and you're already on edge.

Maybe it's the press conference shenanigans. Maybe it's Kimi's stupid, smug, post-conference hallway wink. Or maybe it's the fact that everyone on the grid suddenly decided to become certified couples therapists.

Whatever it is, you helmet feels tighter, the air feels heavier, and you could hear your heart beating in your chest.

"Y/N, radio check. How are we feeling?"

You don't respond immediately, just adjusting your grip on your steering wheel. Kimi's car is beside you on the grid, just one position below you. He was waving at an engineer, bouncy as ever, and you don't know if you want to kiss him or crash him.

Before you knew it, the five red lights go out and you slam your foot on the pedal.

You get a clean launch but Kimi had a faster reaction. The two of you are alongside each other into Turn 1 and you already hated it. You squeeze tighter on the inside, taking a sharper line. He pulls back ahead by Turn 3 and you continue to chase.

Every time he turns, you follow. You're not racing the others anymore— you're locked into car number 12 like it's personal. Like the entire race is just you and him.

Eventually you get past him as he zooms into the pit lane. But that doesn't stop the knot to form in your chest.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightens with every turn. The car hums like it always does but your brain is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere behind you. Somewhere in a black and blue car.

"Antonelli is 0.4 behind you."

You could practically feel him through your mirrors, like a phantom chasing your tail. He had been right there for five laps— patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you hate that a part of you has started to drive more for him than for the points.

Something had shifted. It wasn't just racing anymore, wasn't just banter and cheeky smirks and toeing the line. He looked and talked to you in the press conference like you were the only one in the room— he always does. And now it's messing with you.

You're faster, better— you know this. But your head's too loud. Your heart even louder.

You brake too late into Turn 9. The rear of your Red Bull twitches and your instinct kicks in. You overcorrect, unsettled by the snap, but the grip vanishes from your rear tires.

You spin.

It's no catastrophic, but it's dramatic. Smoke kicks up as your car hurtles into the wall, sending bits of debris scattered all over the track. You weren't hurt, but you weren't moving either. The engine stalls.

You sit still, breathing hard. Helmet still on, grip like a death lock on the wheel.

"Are you okay?"

You don't bother to reply, just slumped in your seat. Stupid emotions buzzing around in your head like it would explode. You see the marshals wave the red flag and you see the Mercedes you were running from slow down as it passes you. Slow enough that you could tell he was looking. Slow enough that you knew he was debating on jumping out.

You swallow and flick the switches, trying your best to get the engine to fire back. It doesn't.

"Yeah," you finally reply. "Just— yeah."

Your engineer tells you to kill the car. Your brain tells you to scream.

You make your way out of your car, and the world feels a little too loud.

You quickly take your race suit off as you whiz past the pit lane, not even bothering to stay for the entire race. You throw your hat on, wanting to get away from the paddock. Away from the cameras and the pitying eyes.

But Red Bull is Red Bull. There's no hiding in the world champion's garage, not with the interns side-eyeing you and the engineers pretending not to notice the tension bleeding off you like smoke.

You slump down into one of the chairs. Your arms are crossed, foot bouncing, eyes locked onto nothing. Every time you blink you see the moment again— the oversteer, the snap, the runoff, his car.

You were not okay.

And apparently your teammate could tell.

You didn't even notice that you had been glued to the exact same spot for a long time until you catch Max slide into the chair in front of you. The race had ended.

"Want to tell me what that was?"

You blink at him, jaw tight. "Was a mistake. I messed up."

"Well, yeah," he deadpans, adjusting his hat. "But that's not what I meant."

You don't respond. Already not liking where this was heading.

"You and Kimi." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "What's going on?"

You scowl, slumping even more into your seat as if that would hide you from Max Verstappen's stormy-eyed gaze. "Nothing's going on."

"Right. That press conference on Thursday would say otherwise."

You scoff. "Whatever happened in that press conference was utter bullshit and you know that."

"Do I?" Max raises an eyebrow, leaning back into his seat. "Because the way he looked at your replay after the race..."

You snap to look at him, cursing yourself internally for being too eager to know. Max notices this and sighs, "He didn't leave until he saw you get out. George told me he would've gotten out if Toto didn't yell at him not to."

You look back to your spot on the floor, unable to reply.

"He almost swerved too. Dropped down to P11."

Silence hangs between you. A million thoughts raced through your mind and your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest.

"You think I threw away points for a boy?" You finally build the courage to look at him.

Max just shrugs, "I think you forgot you were racing everyone else."

You exhale shakily and thank the heavens that Max doesn't push. He just stands up and gives your shoulder a pat. "Sort your head out, Y/N. You're better than this."

As he walks away, you catch sight of the familiar sight of curls and blue lingering near the entrance of the hospitality.

And you decide right then and there that you were going to do this for yourself. No more distractions.

Kimi Antonelli has always been good at bouncing back. Always smiling, able to shake things off, easy to just be.

But lately? Not so much.

You've been quiet. Not cold— but distant. Professional, like he was just another driver on the grid now and not the one you used to glare at from across the room with a sly smirk. You still greet each other but only because you have to. You haven't looked at him longer than two seconds since your crash three weeks ago. And Kimi? He's losing his mind over it.

But it's not like he doesn't know why.

You spiraled after that crash, everyone could tell. He saw it in the way you avoided any form of media, in the way you hid from the paddock, in the way Max helped in pulling you aside, in the way you sat at the next press conference like you were building a brick wall between you and everything else— especially him.

And what did that get Kimi? Messing up.

He locks up into Turn 3 during Q2, tires screeching. He almost scraps the car, giving Toto the time of his life behind the monitors. He even misses the apex in Q3— not once, but twice.

"P15, Kimi," his engineer radios, voice tight. "You okay?"

Kimi stays silent for a beat before finally replying, "Yeah."

He jumps out of the car with a blank expression. He pulls off his gloves with more force than necessary and walks right past the media pen without saying a word. Their PR managers try to call him back, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even look back.

You were the complete opposite.

You pass by on your cool-down lap, securing P4. He watches your car cruise down the pit lane from the garage and the worst part? You don't even glance his way.

Kimi finally feels it. The horrible ache in his chest that maybe this rivalry doesn't feel like a rivalry anymore— just an ending he didn't ask for.

Kimi is finally forced into the media pen for some last-minute interviews. He answers bluntly, no emotion behind his voice as he stares into the void behind the camera. Some interviewers even started to get irritated with the lack of answers, but before they could probe any more, Kimi walks away from the crowd and heads back to the hospitality.

You saw it all. The way his eyes held no spark behind him, the way his voice continued to be flat whenever he talked. You saw the articles and the videos of people trying to piece things together. The timeline from your crash three weeks ago to Kimi's horrendous qualifying session.

You had just seen a clip of Kimi's interview and something in your chest aches— sharp and undeniable.

"Alright, what's going on?"

You flinch slightly at the voice. Max stands a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn't angry— but he wasn't casual either.

You quickly pull your headphones off, discreetly turning off your phone and facing the screen down. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Max quirks an eyebrow. "That's not what your face says."

You roll your eyes at his probing. "Seriously, Max. I'm just tired."

He doesn't move. Still watching. Still knowing.

"You've been off for weeks," he says finally. "You barely talk anymore and you look like you're fighting ghosts every time you're in the car."

You look down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs.

"It's not a big deal," you murmur. "Just... dumb stuff."

He scoffs slightly. "If it was dumb, it wouldn't be getting to you this bad."

You don't respond. You know he's got you

Max walks over and takes the seat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "It's about Kimi, isn't it?"

You hesitate but your silence said enough.

"I saw the interview," he adds, voice quieter. "Kid's a wreck."

Your lips twitch into something bitter. "He should be."

Max frowns at that. "So what happened?"

You take a deep breath, leaning back into your seat. "I told myself that if I cut him out, I'd drive better. That he was a distraction."

He nods slowly. "And?"

"I almost crashed last weekend."

He sighs, confirming everything he's already pieced together.

"He's still distracting me. Even when I ignore him."

Max leans back in his seat, thinking. "Listen, I’m not gonna play therapist. But it doesn’t go away by pretending it’s not there. And it’s not weak to care about people. Even... annoying curly-haired Italians."

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. "He’s so annoying."

Max smirks. "He likes you."

Your head snaps toward him. "What—"

"He likes you," he repeats. "Like... likes you. The whole paddock sees it."

You stay quiet for a second too long.

"And George told me."

Your eyebrows furrow at this information. "Since when do you talk casual to George?"

Max puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, he's not great but I'll do anything for you. You're like my little sister."

You smile at this, grateful for the support your teammate had.

Max tilts his head. “So... do you like him?”

Your fingers twist in your hoodie sleeve. "I don’t know what I feel when he’s around. But when he’s not... everything feels worse."

Max nods once, like that’s enough.

"Then maybe don’t fight it so hard," he says, standing. "Racing’s hard enough. Don’t make it harder by pretending you don’t care."

You watch as he starts to walk away, and just before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder:

"Oh— and if he hurts you, I’ll punt him into next week."

You grin. "Thanks, Max."

He just raises a hand in acknowledgment, walking out the door like he just saved your life.

Despite Max's advice, you couldn't find the courage to talk to Kimi about it. So for a month, you both ignored each other like the plague and your races just went south from there.

You both would barely qualify in Q3 anymore and you wouldn't be able to make it out of a race without clipping the wall. Kimi was just as bad, getting into bad crashes every other week.

It was horrible. But the two of you didn't do anything about it.

Now it was race day, lap 43, and despite the distance created between you two for the past weeks, that didn't mean he still wasn't behind you through every corner.

Your Red Bull is barely in front. Kimi's Mercedes eats at your slipstream like its oxygen— still constantly in your mirrors, constantly on your nerves.

You tried to focus, but he was always there. And unless you decided to push him off, there was nothing you could do.

He lunges into Turn 7 and you don't give way. Your cars go wheel-to-wheel, leaving no room for each other within the track. Kimi tries to edge ahead on the outside. You squeeze him in retaliation, not enough to send him off but enough to send a message.

But he doesn't back off. He jerks the car forward with one final push and all hell breaks loose. Your front wing clips his rear and you swear you can hear the groans of both Christian and Toto all the way from the pit wall.

The contact is light but enough to shatter your wing and blow his tire. Both cars spin in tandem like a devil's tango, red and blue tangled in smoke and weeks of unspoken words. The crowd screams, marshals scramble, radios go haywire.

Everything is chaos. Everything except the burning in your chest.

You slam your fists on your steering wheel as your car comes to a halt on the gravel.

"Y/N, you okay?"

You don't reply. Instead, your eyes drift to the rundown Mercedes beside you. You see Kimi unbuckle his belt and take his helmet and balaclava off. He stood next to his car, posture stiff, eyes locked on your car.

You rip your helmet off and glare at him through the smoke and dust. And for the first time ever, there's no playfulness in the way you look at each other.

Just fury and heartbreak.

You say nothing. He says nothing. The marshals move in, but it's too late— the silence between the two of you has said it all.

You walk into the hospitality suite still in your race suit, helmet under your arm, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

The room goes silent. No one knows what to say.

Your crash replay is already looping on the TV— Red Bull and Mercedes in slow-mo carnage. And not the cars the media expected either. The wing clipping, the tire bursting, the spin— you staring at Kimi like you’ve never known him at all.

Max is already there. So is your race engineer, Christian, your performance coach. The air is thick.

Max looks up, stress just as prominent on his face. "What the hell was that?"

You freeze, one foot still halfway in the doorway.

"You want the PR-friendly version or the one where I say I finally lost it?" you bite.

"You're not helping your case either way," he says calmly, but not coldly. Max is firm— older, sharper, not your rival but someone who’s been through every form of paddock chaos. "Look, I get it. You two have history. But this? This was emotional. Not smart."

Your fists clench around your helmet.

"It wasn’t just emotional. He pushed, I pushed back."

"That’s not racing. That’s a vendetta."

Your jaw ticks.

Your engineer tries to pivot. "We’ll review telemetry, see where we can defend the move if the stewards come calling."

But the conversation feels background now. Your eyes flick up to the TV again— frame paused on Kimi staring at your car in the runoff. Helmet on, shoulders tight, and no approach. No apology— just space.

Too much of it.

Meanwhile, Kimi’s being led into a side room. He's still in his race suit, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line. Toto’s already giving him a look that’s somewhere between concern and disappointment.

"You need to tell me that wasn’t personal."

"It wasn’t."

"Then explain the body language." Toto nods toward the replay. “She looks at you like she wants to kill you. And you just stand there.”

Kimi’s hands curl into fists.

"I didn’t go for a dive bomb. I stayed on the racing line."

"And she didn’t back out either."

He doesn’t answer.

Toto sighs. "You two want to destroy each other, fine. But don’t destroy the cars too. We can’t afford that kind of emotional chaos on track again."

Kimi just stares down at the floor, jaw tense. Because he knows— this isn't just about today’s race.

Media day rolls around once again. The room is packed— cameras, reporters, too many eyes.

You’re seated on the far end of the lineup. Kimi is three chairs away. That’s by design— someone in PR clearly didn’t want another headline.

A reporter clears their throat. "Y/N, let’s start with you. There’s been a lot of talk about the collision last weekend. Do you still stand by your actions on track?"

But even with two drivers between you, the tension is unmistakable.

Max is next to you. Lando’s between you and Kimi. George looks like he’s bracing for impact.

You blink once. Then twice. You lift the mic, voice perfectly neutral.

"I stand by the fact that I raced. The telemetry shows that much."

Kimi doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him either.

The reporter nods, but presses, "Do you regret the result?"

You hesitate. A beat too long. Max subtly shifts in his seat like he’s ready to shut it down for you.

Finally, you say, "I regret that it ended the way it did. Not that it happened."

The next question is for Kimi. "Kimi, same topic. Anything to say about your part in the incident?"

Kimi grips the mic.

"I raced her the way she raced me," he says simply. "I didn’t intend for it to end in a crash."

"But it did," the reporter counters. "And some fans are saying this has gone from playful rivalry to something... dangerous."

Silence. Another reporter cuts in, sensing blood.

"Which brings up the bigger question— are you two actually rivals? Or is there something else going on here?"

You finally glance at Kimi. He glances back. It's not playful now, not teasing. It’s tired, frustrated, wounded.

You speak first.

"Do you think this way because I'm a female?" you start, voice monotonous. "Carlos and Oscar crashed last week but I don't see anyone else questioning if they fuck behind closed doors."

Kimi says nothing. Carlos raises his brows. Oscar shifts like he wants to disappear. Max? Max exhales through his nose like he’s had enough.

Then Kimi, after a moment, says, "We were teammates once. That’s all."

You nod. "And now we’re not."

Another mic is raised but Max leans forward into his own and calmly says, "Can we move on, please?"

Media day goes by faster than you had anticipated. All thanks to Max being the best older brother figure and flicking off the questions that didn't matter. The night was slowly coming, the sunset casting the sky orange and you were still in an empty hallway with your backpack slung over your shoulder.

You hear the footsteps before you see him. The sound of boots on the concrete echoing through the hallway. You don’t need to look up to know it’s him. You just close your eyes and sigh.

"Kimi, don’t—"

"I’m not here to fight,” he says, voice quiet. Almost uncertain.

You finally glance over. He’s not in his race suit anymore— just a plain black team hoodie, hair still damp from the post-race shower. He looks young. Tired. Like this whole thing’s been eating at him too.

You scoff, eyes looking away. "You’re always here. That’s the problem."

Silence.

"I thought that’s what you wanted."

You blink, caught off guard.

"I gave you space," Kimi says, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. "Because every time I got close, you flinched. Or ran. Or crashed into me." A weak laugh, but it dies quickly.

"So I stopped chasing."

That word. Chasing. He looks down, then back up. His eyes meet yours— tired but steady.

"But I never stopped wanting to."

Your breath catches.

"I’ve always been behind you, Y/N," he says, voice softer now. "On the track. Off the track. I chased because I liked being near you. I liked the way you drove, how you looked at me when you overtook me like you planned it since Thursday." He pauses.

"I like you. That didn’t change. I just... backed off because I thought it was better for you."

You blink rapidly, heart pounding. The silence between you stretches wide and raw. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t touch you. Just lets it hang there in the air— waiting.

You finally whisper, "So what now?"

He shrugs, but his voice cracks just slightly. "I don’t know. But I’m still here."

You meet his gaze, and this time you don’t flinch. You look at him, eyes soft but unreadable. The words stick in your throat, burning like adrenaline at lights out.

He steps back slightly— not away, just enough to show he’s leaving the choice to you.

And you do something you don’t expect.

You take one step forward. Let your fingers graze the strap of your bag. And you say, just above a whisper—

"Then don’t stop."

You walk past him slowly, your shoulder brushing his. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to.

Because he’s already smiling.

You were slowly getting back to your regularly scheduled programming. You noticed it when Kimi stood closer to you during today's driver parade and when the both of you exchanged glances in parc fermé after qualifying P1 and P2 yesterday.

You were sure the others noticed it too. The tension was warmer, banter almost coming back full force.

Lap 68 of 70. The tension is high, your focus even higher. Your Red Bull dances through the corners, tires screaming, engine humming—you're in P1, with Kimi right on your rear wing.

It’s poetic, almost. The two of you again. No one else in sight, just the ghost of your shared past trailing behind you.

Your race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. "Two laps to go. Kimi’s got DRS. Don’t do anything stupid."

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. This wasn’t about stupid moves anymore. It wasn’t about payback or proving anything.

Kimi moves up on your inside into the braking zone of Turn 6. You see him in your mirrors— calculated, clean. He isn’t divebombing, isn’t pushing you wide like the both of you used to. He’s asking. Testing.

You defend the corner— not aggressively, but fairly. A line drawn in respect, not in battle. He backs off, just a touch, but he’s still there. You both know he’ll try again. Maybe on the next straight.

Lap 69. You feel him edge closer, the Mercedes getting tow after tow. This time, he takes the outside. You could shove him wide, close the door, cut the apex like you always used to.

But you don’t. You give him space.

You brake early enough to let him choose the line. You even adjust your throttle just slightly— not enough to throw the race, but enough to say I trust you to take it from here.

He does. He slips past, clean as ever. For once, it doesn’t sting.

You chase him for the rest of the lap— not because you’re angry or trying to steal the lead again. But because that’s how it’s always been. You and Kimi. Push and pull. First and second. Side by side, even when you're not.

Final corner. You’re right on his gearbox, but you don’t make the move. Because he earned this one. And because you’ll get him back next time.

Across the finish line: Kimi P1, you P2.

The checkered flag waves in a blur of black and white as you cross the finish line, just seconds behind the silver Mercedes in front of you.

But it wasn’t just the result that had your heart pounding— no, it was him. It was Kimi.

You’d fought each other hard. Clean lines, aggressive braking, zero hesitation. But not a single corner was dirty. Not a single move crossed the line. It was the first time in a long while where it didn’t feel like war. It felt like racing.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as you pull into parc fermé, the crowd roaring in the background. The adrenaline hums in your veins as you unclip your belts, helmet still on as you jump out of the car.

And there he is. Standing beside his car, helmet already off, curly hair flattened against his head, cheeks flushed from the heat. Kimi turns when he hears your footsteps, and for a second, neither of you says anything.

Then he smiles. Not the smug one. Not the teasing one. Just… soft. Honest.

You walk up to him and hold your helmet against your hip. "Nice win," you say quietly.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. "Nice race," he replies. "You pushed me."

You smirk faintly. "I always do."

A beat of silence. The air shifts. He opens his mouth, maybe to say more, but the media start swarming. Max claps you on the back. Charles yells something from the pit wall. Someone hands you water.

But Kimi’s still looking at you.

Before he disappears into the chaos, he leans in just slightly—barely audible over the noise. "I missed that. You and me. Like this."

Your chest tightens, but your eyes soften. "Me too."

Max stays standing next to you, a brotherly smile on his face. "You did well, kid."

You smile back. "Thanks, Max."

"And I'm glad you're both good now."

Your eyes slightly go wide at the mention of the Italian, ears turning red. Max notices this and smirks, "No PDA in the garages. And you better not tell him our strategies."

The podium celebrations are over. Your race suit’s half unzipped, champagne still drying on your skin as you walk down the paddock lane toward the team hospitality. Your boots echo against the pavement, the crowd a dull buzz behind you.

Beside you, Kimi walks with his hands holding his helmet. There’s a comfortable silence between you now— no jabs, no standoff tension. Just the lingering heat of a good fight and the electric charge of something that still hasn’t quite been said.

You side-eye him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"So?" you ask, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. "You finally happy you finished in front of me?"

Kimi glances over, slow and smug in the way only he can pull off. "Nah."

You raise an eyebrow, turning slightly to face him. "No?"

He lets out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sigh, eyes forward now as you both keep walking. "I’m only getting started."

Your step falters just slightly— just enough for him to notice. He grins, because of course he does.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way your lips tug upward. "Cocky."

"Confident," he corrects, flicking his gaze toward you. "You’d know something about that."

You hum under your breath, trying not to let the warmth spread to your cheeks. "Guess we’ll see what happens next race."

Kimi slows just a little so he’s behind you for a step or two. “I’ll be right there," he says. "Chasing you."

You don’t say anything, not yet— but your smirk grows just a little wider. You go up to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, running off with a giggle towards your hospitality, leaving him dumbfounded and red in the middle of the paddock.

You're happy. Because for the first time in a while, you want him to.

Lap 71 of 72. The desert track shimmers in the heat, and the Red Bull at the front of the train is holding her own. You.

And he’s behind you again. Kimi Antonelli. The same boy who used to haunt your mirrors, your dreams, your everything.

The same boy you once fought like hell. The same boy you gave space to. The same boy you once let win.

But not today.

Your tires are worn, your fuel light’s flashing, and your team is begging you to bring it home safely. But you can hear Kimi’s car closing in, hear his engine roar on the main straight like he’s trying to rewrite the ending again.

He sends it. Late on the brakes into Turn 9. You cover him off. He goes outside in Turn 10. You tighten the line.

Lap 72. Final lap. He’s still right there. The Mercedes dips and weaves behind your Red Bull, looking for a gap, looking for permission. But this time— you don't give it.

Not out of bitterness. Not out of pride. But because this one’s yours. You earned it.

You hit every apex. Every throttle input is perfect. You’re on the limit, dancing with the car, chasing glory.

And as you round the final corner, Kimi’s still behind. Close. Always close. But behind.

You cross the finish line. You took the gold this time, and god did it taste good.

Your breath’s still heavy when you climb out of the car. Mechanics swarm you, hugs and shouts and celebration— your first win. Champagne-worthy. History-making. Redemption, in its purest form.

You glance sideways— and there he is. Kimi. Helmet off, curlier than usual, grinning like the idiot he is.

He walks up and bumps your shoulder with his. "Happy now? You finally finished ahead of me again."

You scoff, shaking your head, a tired smile on your lips. "You say that like I ever stopped."

He smirks. "I know. I was just giving you time to catch up."

You roll your eyes but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. He leans in just enough so only you can hear—

"I’m proud of you."

He pecks you on the cheek then steps away, letting you take the middle step on the podium where you belong. The crowd cheers and the teams holler.

And even from P2, he never looks away.

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mmani-e · 1 year ago

Text

Hello! After all this effort, behold:

DANGANRONPA DEMIX, THH EDITION!

Dr Demix 2

Finally got the talentswap designs I have for the THH characters one and done with! You can click through the read more section for some fun design insights. I'm intending on uploading a doc containing short lore bits about them eventually.

Kyoko Kirigiri - Ultimate Affluent Progeny

So Kyoko's design was both kinda simple, kinda not, wanted to give her a very fine and regal kinda attitude to her but not arrogant as that's very much Byakuya's thing. Her story is that she loves her dad more than the family business and her grandpa so she abandons detective work and just uses her brain to help her dad out.

Makoto Naegi - Ultimate Novelist

Makoto is a wonderful guy, just great all around. He loves writing children's books and happy stories. This is his main coping mechanism so he doesn't have to process any negative emotions he gets, the rest he can't process… well they go into a murderous psychopath alter.

Aoi Asahina - Ultimate Lucky Student

Shoujo protagonist Aoi. Cute, headstrong, affective, competitive, these are all the traits that make her fight for her friends and clash with Kyoko (and more often than not Byakuya) in the killing game, even when all hope seems lost… she pushes through, unafraid to let tears spill from her eyes for all those lost, but pushing all the same.

Byakuya Togami - Ultimate Detective

This one, I wanna go into more lore territory, cause I kinda memed around his last desc I gave him so here goes:

"A disgraced heir of the Togami household, Byakuya lost the competition that would've secured his riches. Disdainful and bitter, he sought out to get to the bottom of why he lost, uncovering a rabbit hole in the process. By the end, he proved his sibling a cheater, but it didn't matter because by the end as he found the sweet satisfaction of uncovering secrets and crushing liars and cheaters under the weight of their hubris far more satisfying than any inheritance."

Sayaka Maizono - Ultimate Spirit Medium

So Sayaka isn't a clairvoyant at all like Yasuhiro, in fact her entire skillset is completely different, first of all she is like an actual psychic, and I based her design off of the japanese Itako, quite loosely. Very interesting group, look it up, also she'll never use these powers in the killing game because I dunno how to even approach these rituals or what they look like or how to write them while remaining respectful, so she won't do it in a killing game for the express reason of her not having the right tools available and not wanting to disrespect her traditions.

Leon Kuwata - Ultimate Swimmer

I really wanna draw him again, all these characters again tbh, and I wanna show off the patterns on his wetsuit. It's a whole coral reef under there, that anemone and clownfish bit is only one part of a whole reef stretching his midline.

Sakura Ogami - Ultimate Programmer

Sakura has installed chips into her body to help optimize her body processes and also cause why not. As for the muscles, she's an Assembly programmer, the programs she's made can run on calculators she loves it.

Chihiro Fujisaki - Ultimate Martial Artist

Chihiro's design here with the two belts is an explicit nod to his preferred martial art - Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, so unlike Sakura in canon who'd be easy to imagine cracking someone's skull in half with a chop, Chihiro's approach is more crawling onto someone and bringing them down to the floor with grappling like an angry halfling monk. As for the belts themselves, on his head is his final junior belt, while around his waist is his current belt, he's not a black belt yet because he's still too young for it.

Celestia Ludenberg - Ultimate Baseball Star

Celestia actually isn't a legend in this AU, Taeko is. Celestia hates that and wants to start a baseball career going international, whatever the hell that means is up to her own definition, but she wants to be remembered forever as Celestia, not Taeko. Also extra sentence, but this is the SINGLE hardest design I've ever had to deal with here, I think in the future I'll be drawing all her little accessories and I have an alt costume for her I have in mind.

Hifumi Yamada - Ultimate Pop Star

So I changed Hifumi's story as I originally outlined in the OG post with him. He was friends with Aoi all his life, pretty much his only friend at all, and ever since he was little he had an obsession with writing songs, because he was obsessed with stuff like anime openings and was content to just keep the songs to himself. It wasn't till Aoi convinced him to share some of his songs that he started his journey to success, but bc he's not traditionally attractive, his first hits were literally just… his voice being played over other more attractive singers and it wasn't until very very recently that he even performed a song of his for the first time.

Toko Fukawa - Ultimate Fanfic Writer

So while Hifumi was clearly a Doujinshi but due to weird translation, ended up as fanfic creator, Touko is straight up a FF then Wattpad then AO3 girl, who would get obsessed with this really shitty, tripe manga that she didn't even like reading. It did however have super hot dudes in it, so she wrote good stories of those characters when she got frustrated with the actual authorial content - which was always.

Yasuhiro Hagakure - Ultimate Gambler

Quite LITERALLY the never stop gambling meme personified into a guy. He can lose 3 mil on slot machines but always comes out fine because it means if he keeps gambling he'll eventually run into his 1/3 and win giga millions, what he needs to pay off his debts. It isn't just with luck though either because his personality and lack of intelligence or understanding of most the rules of the games he plays means he'll never react the way he should when getting a good hand in poker or a bad draw in blackjack, so he wins those games almost always through just… stupidity.

Mukuro Ikusaba - Ultimate Biker

She's number 16 in her gang, and is easily the most loyal enforcer and taskman of the gang. She does anything she's told, to a grim and disciplined degree not typical for hooligan bike gangers, she doesn't really desire a seat as top dog of the gang though, after all she's got school to worry about, and her sister.

Mondo Owada - Ultimate Warlord

So his relationship and Kiyotaka's is gonna be interesting, because I don't want him to be exactly like Mukuro at all, who was just sort of an all-obsessed Yandere. It's more like he's always chafing under Taka, who is less than friendly with him in this AU, really the main way he even lets Taka boss him around is because he pays incredibly well and helps keep his gang members from devolving back into the unstructured, chaotic criminal life, the same that took his brother years ago.

Oh and yeah, he still looks like Guile, as he should.

Sparkling Justice - Ultimate Killer Killer

Yeah it's a reference to Killer Killer, sue me I love the manga. He has Hajirahara's ahoge, and I thought it'd be cute to also give him a mask just like the other Makoto from a Kodaka game series (Raincode.) Also, while Genocide jack stuffs all her scissors in her skirt, Makoto keeps a truth gun with "truth bullets" as his main weapon, the gun he stores inside the big book in the chibi of just Makoto, and the bullets kept on his person as the red buttons all over his body, which he pulls out when he needs to reload.

"Kiyotaka Ishimaru" - Ultimate Fashionista

Unlike Mukuro and Junko, Mondo absolutely cannot hide the fact that he acts nothing like Kiyotaka, though this is surprisingly fine to everyone else, because unlike Junko who plastered herself onto literally everything, Mondo always obfuscated himself from the public spotlight, at most showing only his suits while he hid his face behind something conveniently placed. Which played primarily to his vision of an ultimate fashionista, who was above everyone and catered to the rich and powerful.

Junko Enoshima - Ultimate Moral Compass

This was a fun one, I decided to let her have her red hair because I believe it to be the "natural" look of her hair, while attaching little clips of dyed hair to her buns as a replacement to keep her shape sorta and keep the strawberry blonde somwehere on her. Understand that while she is the "moral compass" she is still pretty deranged, and the only reason she focuses so much on keeping everyone on their best behavior is because it's endlessly entertaining to her to make her fellow moral committee members upset when she blatantly makes a mockery of the rules while still keeping kids on their best behavior to make a point.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru - Ultimate Fashionista and Tyrant, the Iron Hand of Despair

Taka's design I wanted to sort of focus on this sort of, holier-than-thou idea, where I wanted to make him look a lot fancier and upper-class than Junko does in his standard highschool fit compared to him. I wanted him to have an upper-crust sort of look

If you're reading this after reading this all, thanks! You're a wonderful person :) Signing off...

Mani

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

Text

The Lion in the Jungle Shows No Shame

summary: you go into labour

warnings: some minor mention of contractions but that’s it

a/n: rich!reader is me; not the rich part, but the so over everyone part

word count: 1.7k

The boardroom at the training ground is frigid, an oppressive sort of sterile, painted in a corporate beige so calculatedly devoid of warmth it borders on offensive. The colour has clearly been chosen by a committee, signed off by no less than five department heads, all with the express goal of sapping any ounce of levity from the room. The walls bear only the club’s logo in gleaming gold, catching the light like a freshly polished trophy, austere and daunting. You’re seated at the head of the table in a chair meant to look sleek and modern but which you’ve always thought resembles a throne, albeit a minimalist, joyless one. You take pride in this spot, preferring the vantage point of a monarch observing her court, where each word, each glance can be read as an unspoken directive. A panel of finance officers sits to your left, expressionless and obedient, while the marketing strategists and department heads to your right wait, perched on the edge of their seats, eager to impress, or perhaps, not be dismissed. You’ve made your mind up on all of their fates already, but they don’t need to know that.

You sit back, legs crossed, and let your gaze drift to the person currently holding court—a sponsorship officer droning on about a potential partnership with an energy drink. The whole affair is tedious, but you feign interest, allowing only a flicker of annoyance to register as you twist the cap of your Montblanc in slow, deliberate turns, a small, repetitive comfort amidst the boredom. The sponsorship officer is yammering on about margins and high-profile market share. You nod, keeping your expression intentionally neutral, a carefully cultivated mask of polite detachment.

Nine months pregnant isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a pass. If you’re still here, they have no excuse for underperforming. You’ve kept every meeting, every review, every grueling evaluation on schedule, so there’s no room for them to slip up. Your presence is a reminder that leadership doesn’t come with compromises or concessions—not even now. Alexia might have opinions about it, but she knows better than to question your commitment. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then, there’s a twinge—a faint prickling in your lower back. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the sort of trivial discomfort you’ve brushed off for weeks now. You shift slightly, adjusting in your seat. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But someone—some unfortunate junior in marketing, possibly fresh out of his MBA programme and clearly untrained in discretion—glances over. He catches it, the flicker of discomfort. There’s the faintest suggestion of concern on his face, a furrowed brow, a hesitant question half-formed before he thinks better of it.

Good.

You meet his gaze and reward him with a smile—half genuine, mostly a warning. He gulps, as if he’s swallowed something sharp, and turns his attention back to his notes.

Then the pain intensifies, sharper this time. It tightens low and fierce, radiating like an overstretched muscle, and you have to will your expression to remain steady, blank, entirely unaffected. Your eyes fixate on the PowerPoint slide, as if by staring hard enough you can dissolve the discomfort into the soulless white glow of the projector. But no, it’s there, settling in like an uninvited guest who intends to stay.

The marketing intern glances up again. This time, he actually manages a look of pity. He’s hardly subtle about it. You almost laugh—almost—except the contraction twists hard enough to force you to hold your breath, and your fingers press a touch too hard against the table.

The finance officer drones on, oblivious, his voice a steady monotone against the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Someone in the corner clears their throat. The sound cuts through the room like a scalpel.

“Ma’am,” he says, hesitant, looking anywhere but at you. “If you’d like to take a break—”

You wave him off with a flick of your wrist. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s keep this moving, please.” Your words are clipped, precise, the kind that leave no room for doubt. You feel the weight of the room’s collective discomfort settle around you, like fog gathering, thick and stifling. The intern looks at you again, wide-eyed, uncertain, and you catch his gaze with a look so cold he almost recoils.

“Of course,” he mumbles, fumbling with his laptop, frantically tapping keys as if the sheer speed of his typing will save him from your wrath.

The next contraction slams into you with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch. A sharper, hotter pain spirals down your spine, and you grip the edge of the table, harder this time. The finance officer is rambling about revenue share and high-growth potential, but his words are disintegrating, merging into the mechanical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, until they’re nothing but a dull, meaningless drone.

“Ma’am?” The intern speaks again, tentatively. “Are you sure you’re… alright?”

You turn to him with a look that could shatter glass. “Do I look unwell to you?”

His face drains of colour. “No, of course not,” he stammers. “Just… checking”

There it is again, that shift. It’s slight but palpable, a crack in the air. Power slipping. The assistant to your left, normally so silent and obedient, dares to glance your way with what might be concern. Another staffer coughs, hiding his expression in a notebook, though you can see his eyes darting nervously across the table. They’re all shifting now, uncomfortable, glancing at each other in a silent exchange, a web of tension growing thicker with each stolen glance.

You grit your teeth, willing the pain to dissipate, willing them all to get back to their work and stop—just stop looking at you like you’re some fragile artefact about to shatter.

Then, your assistant, Julian, a man so dependable you’d have trusted him with your life savings, makes the first move. He stands, smoothing his tie, clearing his throat in a way that’s maddeningly self-assured. “I think we need to get someone,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent, like a fatherly reprimand. “Just… in case”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Sit down,” you say, your voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Now”

He hesitates, and the silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, inexplicably, he defies you. “I’m calling Alexia,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

The shock is visceral, immediate. You can feel it rippling through the room, see it in the furtive glances darting across the table. You, the unassailable chief, suddenly vulnerable, and worse, defied. You hear murmurs, soft but unmissable, as if they’re collectively holding their breath, waiting for you to explode.

Alexia. Coming here. The idea sends a fresh wave of mortification rolling through you, sharper and hotter than any contraction. Alexia, with her bluntness, her inability to mince words. She’ll walk in here, she’ll see you, and she’ll say exactly what she’s thinking, in front of everyone.

The finance officer clears his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe we should… reconvene another time?” He avoids your gaze, wisely. His voice is tentative, as though he’s testing the air for danger.

“Absolutely not,” you bite out, voice like ice. “We’re finishing this meeting. Right now”

But it’s too late. The tension is too thick, the unease in the room too palpable to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, hesitant, searching, a quiet mutiny blooming under their skin, as though you’re something fragile, a rare beast they don’t quite know how to handle. You grip the edge of the table again, willing the pain to subside, to vanish, anything to regain control of the situation.

Then, the door swings open, and there she is: Alexia, in her training kit, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fury so palpable it sends a ripple of shock through the room. She locks eyes with you, her expression a lethal blend of exasperation and concern. The silence deepens, everyone watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“You’re still here,” she says, each word clipped and loaded, a statement more than a question. It lands like a slap.

You force a smile, though it’s tight and strained. “I’m fine”

She sweeps a gaze across the room, her eyes taking in the faces of your subordinates, each one frozen in various states of unease and fascination. When she looks back at you, her expression is a mix of incredulity and… pity. She almost smirks, as if to say, Look at you now.

“You’re in labour,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, her voice filled with a quiet, unmistakable fury. “And you’re… what? Leading a meeting?”

You can feel the weight of their stares, the barely-concealed smirks, the disbelief. You, their fearless leader, brought low, bossed around by your own spouse in front of them. You can already hear the whispers, the knowing chuckles that will ripple through the ranks for weeks, the stories that will morph and grow.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” you manage, but your voice is weak, a mere shadow of its usual authority.

“Necessary?” Alexia repeats, crossing her arms. “You think it’s not necessary to go to the hospital when you’re about to give birth?”

Someone stifles a laugh—an intern, no less. You shoot him a look that promises retribution, but it’s lost amidst the pain that surges again, more intense, unrelenting. Then, Alexia’s arm is around you, firm yet gentle, steering you toward the door with a resolve that’s unyielding.

You give one last, desperate protest. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Really, I—”

“Enough,” she says, and her voice is a balm, a force, something that both steadies and infuriates you. Her arm around you is warm, grounding, and for a moment, your frustration melts, replaced by something softer, something you won’t allow yourself to name.

As Alexia guides you out, you catch a final glimpse of the boardroom, your staff looking back at you with expressions ranging from bemused pity to unspoken amusement. You know, with chilling certainty, that this will be the story of the month, if not the year. But with Alexia’s arm wrapped around you, her presence beside you, that irritation begins to fade.

The door closes, sealing you from their whispers, from their smirks. Just this once, you let it go.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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occamstfs · 9 months ago

Text

Start-Up

Gabriel hates the start-up he works for. Though this morning it seems there are more immediate things he should be concerned with as men something strange begins to change men around the world.

Couldn't let all these other authors have all this fun without me! Here's my own take on the theme of Viral Transformation! Now I did muddy the waters a bit by setting my virus story at a social media start up but I think it works haha! Do check out the stories by all the other amazing writers who took part!!! -Occam

There was something strange going on in the city today and Gabriel wasn’t quite sure what the cause was. It’s not like there’s a commotion or anything, on the contrary; the streets were quiet but there was just something sinister in the air. He works for a new social media start-up in the wake of most of the big platforms collapsing, succinctly named Web. Gabriel didn’t have a ton of faith in the app and was growing increasingly tired of dealing with the CEO’s inane demands but hey, as long as checks keep clearing.

Reuben’s, said CEO’s, most recent crusade was banning the use of any competing sites or networks on company property, which unfortunately includes Gabriel’s personal devices. Who knew start-ups could be so draconian, though when the rich boy in charge has a fleet of lawyers and the lowly programmer just needs to make ends meet that’s how it goes it seems. All this to say, Web is thus far incredibly unsuccessful as a news platform and poor Gabriel is unable to see the chaos going on in the city behind closed doors as he walks into work.

The programmer artfully misses chyrons scrolling past telling all men to stay indoors and not to make unnecessary journeys as he mindlessly scrolls on the app he has spent countless hours producing. “Ugh.” Gabriel rolls his eyes as he sees post after post from thoughtless gym bros. Reuben swears this is a massive demographic for them but the programmer has constantly spoken up to the contrary. What could they possibly gain by making yet another platform for men who could barely read. Any indulgence or encouragement towards this demographic was sure to push away more reasonable, serious people.

Eyes still glued to his phone in search of any shred of news, Gabriel doesn’t notice the state of the receptionist as he wanders past to take the elevator up to the office, “Morning Ron.” Only after a few seconds with no response does the coder finally tear his eyes away to see the young man in quite a disheveled state. He chokes back a gasp as he sees Ron quickly remove the hand that was shoved in his pants as he too only just notices the presence of his fellow man, “UHH Morning Gabe- I was just uhhh, getting something out of my pocket?” His rapid movement sends the sound of fabric tearing through the air as whatever remains of the button up he was wearing falls in pieces to the floor.

Desperate to put this encounter behind himself Gabriel mashes the close door button in the elevator. “Ron can’t have been masturbating just now.” he assures his reflection in the elevator doors. “He’s a good kid, smart kid.” He says of the man maybe five years his junior. Still, at the very least Gabriel is surprised that he came to work wearing clothes that clearly didn’t fit? He can’t help but summon the intimate look at Ron’s body he just received and can’t imagine how the receptionist bulked up so quickly? He can’t think of a single occasion of Ron mentioning going to the gym.

Elevator clicking ever upwards he figures Reuben must be to blame, first he wants lunkheads using our app and then he convinces employees to waste time at the gym. Ah! That stupid gym! Gabriel punches a fist into his own palm as in the back of his mind he remembers the CEO taking up valuable office space to create a company gym for any employees to make use of. One of the many ‘benefits’ of working on Web. “God I hate startups.”

The elevator doors clink open and Gabriel exits to find the office space seems to be a ghost town. No one is using cubicles and he only sees a few of his fellow department heads have made it in so far. He grumbles to himself, “God-damnit if today could have been work from home I’m leaving now…” Despite his irritation, he enters his office and immediately starts getting to work. Waiting on his desk is a short list of suggestions on how to improve the platform from Rueben, which he promptly discards with little ado. Checking his own to-do list for the day he finds a one on one scheduled with one of the few coworkers he actually respects, Alexander Blainely, head of marketing.

Most of the other executives were yes men, but Alexander seems to have an actual head on his shoulders. Gabriel always finds their meetings far more stimulating and productive than most other drudgery that goes on in this office. Returning into the open workspace, Gabriel shivers as he feels something in the air yet again. Completely unplaceable, it’s almost certainly nothing, but he remains on edge. His discomfort only grows as he nears his friend’s office and his hitherto directionless uneasiness finds a source. Hearing somethin a little more than disconcerting he whispers under his breath, “what the fuck? Is that moaning?”

Barely audible when he shuts the door of his own office and wanders into the otherwise silent suite, it increases in volume with each step towards that of Alexander’s quarters. Gabriel grits his teeth and rages in his own mind for trusting anyone in this god-forsaken venture to treat their job with a shred of dignity. Arriving at the door and confirming that the man is clearly exerting himself somehow with a clear disregard to decency in their shared workspace, Gabriel scrunches his face and takes a deep breath. Hesitating at the thought of catching someone he had thought was a compatriot in flagrante delicto, his ire overcomes his usual prudence and he barges in. Never could he be prepared for the sight that awaited him.

Alexander sits on his work desk masturbating with his eyes closed as he rapturously traces over a muscular body that Gabriel flat out knows he has never had before today. Tongue lolling out of his mouth and dripping with drool as if he were a dog, Gabriel can’t help but loose a gasp as he sees with every pump of his cock, with every fervent breath and heady gasp from Alex, his body is continuing to change.

Seconds pass and his skin browns with an unnatural tan under the LED lights in his office. Meanwhile he continues to surge larger, biceps already larger than when Gabriel stumbled in, the head of marketing’s shoulders pack on muscle as his neck thickens and his whole torso widens with strength. Thighs bulge meatier as his cock quivers higher, stretching inches further into the air as his already massive balls pulse larger. Gabriel’s gasp announcing his presence, the masturbating man opens his eyes and, almost as if it were a defense mechanism he loses control and cums.

Gabriel can’t tear his eyes away from the titan at the moment of his release. Every already massive muscle on his body expands as veins bulge out from the clear stress of the transformation. As load after load shoots out in inhumanly quick succession, Gabriel freezes as he sees facial hair and body hair that somehow already looks shaved begins to decorate his beyond masculine form. Sweat glistening off the man’s sculpted body makes him aware of the aura of musk that has clearly been filling this room, one that is impossibly similar to the general malaise that he has been assailing his senses all morning. Finally realizing what is happening in front of him, Gabriel slams the door shut and sprints down the hall, accompanied by nothing but his own gasps of exertion.

He doesn’t take a second to think until he’s safe back in the sanctum of his office. The only place since this morning where he hasn’t felt the dreadful haze that he only just became totally aware of. Hopefully safe here, he allows himself a moment of reflection, connecting his brief encounter with Ron and his unfortunate meeting with what can’t have been Alexander. “Fuck it.” He starts to pull out his cell to check the news but before he can make any progress, he realizes there is something warm and sticky on his shirt. Looking down to see what it is he immediately drops his phone and tears off his suit. God. Some of that must-be imposter’s cum got on his button up. He throws the shirt away and scrubs at his skin where the man’s fluids got on him with fury. Using hand sanitizer like it’s a cure he scrubs and scratches until his skin burns red and raw.

After he’s confident he’s done all he can to remove any trace of Alex from his body, Gabriel grabs the backup shirt he keeps in his desk for just an occasion as this. Or rather, in case he spills coffee on himself or some other accident that makes sense at all. His mind craving any degree of normalcy the thought of coffee stays with him. Oliver should be making it in about now. His pulse begins to quicken as he feels concern for the intern, in fact it’s racing far faster a tempo than it usually reaches at its most accelerate. Putting his hand on his wrist as concern for himself eclipses that of Oliver he finds both come to a head as his door opens and he falls out of his chair in shock.

“Jesus Oliver, knock next time!” The programmer shouts cowering behind his desk. Oliver quickly sets down his handful of mugs and goes to help his boss up, “So sorry Gabe! I just saw you were in and you usually don’t mind at all.” Standing up, Gabriel inches behind the intern and quietly closes the door, he looks Oliver up and down for anything out of the ordinary. “Are you, feeling alright Ollie?” The man purses his lips and pats himself down, clearly not in the same headspace of his usually stoic boss, “Well, I believe I am sir? Is, uhm, everything alright with you?” Oliver’s eyes flicker around the room seeing the discarded clothes and taking note of his boss sweating more than usual. In fact Oliver isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the man really sweat at all, “Did you want me to switch for an iced coffee?”

Gabriel rubs his face and is similarly shocked to find himself sweating, “Ugh. I think this job might be getting to me. Have you seen anyone else in the office today?” Oliver puffs his cheeks and looks at the mugs he set aside, “No actually? Now that you mention it, Ronnie wasn’t even downstairs which seemed weird. I mean he’s always on that grind to try and impress Rueben.” Gabe scratched his beard and grimaced, usually he’s quite adept at compartmentalizing, it’s how he hasn’t blown up at the CEO thus far. But the impossibility of what he saw in Alexander’s office has left him shaken. His heart rate begins to rise once more as his mind returns to that scene.

In fact, it’s not the only thing that begins to rise. Suddenly his uncontrollable mind latches onto the image of Alexander’s cock expanding and then blowing its load and Gabriel’s own cock begins to stir. His face burns with blush as he can’t help but dart his eyes to see his usually unimpressive cock begin to inch its way larger down his dress pants. For his part Oliver, used to taking verbal cues follows his boss’ eyeline and balks as he sees the man thoughtlessly go to grab it. Oliver is struck speechless as the ever stark programmer bites his lip and begins rubbing his cock through the linen pants, “Jesus, uh- Uhm- Sir!?”

Immediately alert he wipes his face and sucks up the drool that was apparently beginning to pool in his throat. Gabriel grabs a tissue and wipes his brow, fervently apologizing to the intern, “I am so sorry Oliver. I don’t know what…” Oliver quickly waves him off, not so much bothered by the behavior as surprised. “D- Don’t you worry about it Gabe, er sir. I’ll just be out here if you need me!” He backs into the door before stepping out with an awkward nod, leaving the coffee cups behind. Gabriel debates whether or not he should report himself to HR before he slams his fist against his desk chair as he remembers they haven’t an HR department.

Rage at his shitty start-up returning at an elevated degree he gets his head back in the game, despite the best attempts of his wanting package and balls growing bluer by the second. Concerned for whatever seems to be going on in this office, or worse in the world at large, he goes to the internet once more. Without much thought at all he opens Web and starts scrolling to find any information of use. Unfortunately for the higher functions in his mind the programmer is immediately assailed by the mindless user base he so disdains, and rather than feeling the ire he always does towards the dullards and hellions. Instead he finds himself possessed with a desire to drink in every last bulging muscle that presents itself.

Coworkers, friends, reporters- Everyone Gabriel has deemed worthy of attention on the nigh-worthless platform he is forced to use, even those who are straighter laced than Gabriel, have been posting smut on main. Industrious man he may be, the programmer is indeed but a man of flesh and blood, and that blood is rushing through him at a breakneck pace to give him the most intense erection he’s ever enjoyed.

It’s partially why he’s so adamant about diversifying their app, a weakness in himself for the male form; a weakness that whatever corruption that is beginning to rise within him is gleefully taking full advantage of. He tries to stay focused, return to his concerned research, but after taking a gasping breath he realizes that his own body has begun to produce the musky air that must be spreading the impossible changes he’s trying to get to the bottom of.

Staring at the bulging pecs and hairy asses of men he once respected, Gabe struggles to pay attention to anything but the cock begging for his attention as it begins to create a wet spot halfway down his leg. The zipper halfway undone by the growing beast alone is fully ripped asunder as Gabriel can’t help but full on masturbate in his office, just as he walked into Alexander doing but minutes ago. He tears off his button up with uncharacteristic aggression as it begins to impede his jacking off. As soon as his arms are exposed his attention leaves the app and begins to hone in on his own body. God has he always been so hot?

Gabriel flexes his biceps and smirks as he sees them peak higher than he’s ever imagined they could before now. Raising his arms also exposes his pits, a hotbed for musk and whatever impossible contagion hides within it. He forces his neck to crane down into his pit as sweat begins to stain the undershirt that is rapidly filled with new mass. Intended to be deliberately loose, pounds begin to pack onto his chest and push the garment to its brim, the cotton fabric sticks to his chest tight enough that it would be a struggle to get it off over his new pecs, hearing the sound of fabric straining his cock grows even harder at the idea that perhaps he won’t even need to take it off. He’ll just grow large enough that his massive body will destroy it for him.

This thought flitting through his mind, Gabirel loses whatever shred of self-control remains and goes all out in enjoying the changes happening to him. Rubbing his hands across his sweat-covered tank top and feeling the burning muscles building themselves underneath it. The sound of fabric straining and tearing fills him with pleasure he couldn’t fathom before now as he nears his first rapturous release. Sweat drips from his pits as they grow thicker and curls stretch further afield as to be ungovernable, ever focused on the task of spreading his scent. Steady streams of pre trail down his cock, lathering his hand as his whole body quivers with the anticipation of ecstasy.

Before it can arrive however he receives a scheduled video call from the man he wants to hear from less than any other. Clicking accept as he must, the disdain that Gabriel has always held for Rueben quickly comes to a head. Greeted with the image of a more muscular, just as juvenile, version of the CEO filling his screen, Gabriel can’t help but grit his teeth in rage. Hearing him laugh and flex as he begins playing with the special effects in Zoom, Gabriel doesn’t have a moment to realize that he’s continued to masturbate. Instead, much like when Alexander was surprised, his anger triggers him to cum immediately with no restraint, shooting loads all over the underside of the desk, his still thrusting hand, and the computer screen in front of him.

Rueben laughs even harder at the sight, his voice duller than ever as he chastises the programmer, “Yo bro huh! Don’t take out your anger on the little guy! You should head down to the company gym and put that aggression to good use bro huhuh!” Gabriel narrows his eyes as veins bulge in his neck. Unhappy that the CEO might have a point, he promptly slammed the shutdown button on his computer and stumbled to his feet, quite off balance from his powerful orgasm.

Quickly appraising his filthy condition, he shrugs at the cum covering his skintight clothes. Whatever, the gyms sure to be disgusting anyway, despite just enjoying release his cock bounces at the idea and he bites his lip to avoid smiling in excitement. Something at the back of his mind desperately begs for a second to realize he’s almost lost himself beyond measure. Unfortunately, with another deep breath of his own b.o. the man’s eyes fog over and he lumbers out of his office.

Turning with an awkward smile as he hears the head programmer’s office open Oliver starts to say, “Hey boss, hope your-” before his mouth falls agape at seeing the disheveled lug that wanders out. Still unsteady on his feet as they begin to tear the expensive leather shoes he had on, the man stumbles forward and catches himself on the intern’s shoulder. “Buh, sorry uh, Oll’” grimacing at the stain he left on the young man’s shirt, he wipes it in further and nods before heading off, “I’m uh… Gonna go check out the gym.” Oliver stares at what he can only guess is cum that his boss just smeared into his shirt before going off to the gym. Rather than confusion at his boss’ behavior or disgust at the surely hazardous substance on his shirt, he can’t help but sniff as something in the air begins to make him feel warm inside.

Sprinting down the emergency flight of stairs Gabriel leaves a cloud of musk in his wake as he works up more sweat than his body has ever produced before. Each bounding footstep skips an arbitrary amount of stairs as his legs lengthen. Quickly does he lose the few shreds of clothing that remained stuck to his growing form. After his feet finally burst from his shoes he leaves a clear trail of sweaty footprints that could surely be tracked by anyone who wanders past. Though any poor fool who should wander near enough to smell the slovenly detritus in Gabriel’s wake would likely find themselves lacking motivation to do anything but immediately lose their mind to senseless pleasure then and there.

Arriving in the gym Gabriel hungrily eyes the scene and is less than thrilled that he seems to be the only man present. Opting to throw on some clothes for no reason than to feel the friction of fabric against his sweaty skin he finds stained sweatpants littered on the floor and throws them on. After gratuitously appreciating his reflection and adding to the Pollock painting of stains that litter the posing mirror of their company gym, Gabe throws himself intuitively into every machine. He delights in the tension and pull of every straining muscle and grins through the pain as they bounce back larger than with every repetition.

He doesn’t spare half a thought about wiping down machines, and clearly whatever boorish louts used them previously didn’t either, much to his satisfaction. Each second of his body changing upstairs during his too brief session of self pleasure holds nothing towards the edification, the perfection, he enjoys now as he throws himself into a workout. It’s far more intense than his meager body should ever be able to maintain. Sweat drips from him like a waterfall as hair fans out across his form, rapidly expanding from shaved stubble into fluff that would hold and spread his scent for hours to come.

Taking a break to take a photo of his new beyond exuberant self, as he stands across from the mirror his cock instantly hardens and inches to its almost foot long length down the leg of his sweatpants. Immediately it begins dripping pre down his hairier thigh as he screams in bestial abandon. His brain is so far gone the idea of posting the steamy pics of his sweaty form on Web doesn’t even occur to him. Instead the only thoughts remaining to fill his mind are those to return to the gym and get back to the important mission of increasing his virile strength, or the even more pressing desire to fuck anything that moves. Unfortunately for him he can’t produce a single actionable step towards that end. So he shall simply enjoy his new body by his lonesome until some equally horny man stumbles into the company gym.

“God what is up with me today.” Back on the tenth floor Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose as he is overwhelmed with another headache. Ever since Gabriel paid him the brief visit on his way to the gym Oliver has been getting them with increasing frequency. He removed his shirt, not wanting to wear something fouled by whatever was covering his boss’ hands but the damage was already done. The idea that not wearing a shirt in the office is inappropriate moves further out of reach by the second. The intern scratches the back of his neck and grumbles as he feels a soreness in his arm and traps, paying no mind as his fingers trail through thicker hair spreads down from his hairline towards his shoulders. Typing away at his computer, each keypress moves slower than the last, his hands cramp as they suddenly bulge larger.

Taking the smallest second to appraise his changing form Ollie’s eyes widen as he sees there are two unmissable weights now hanging on his chest, sitting on a small gut that he has been making concerted efforts to do away with. Feeling up the new pecs he blushes as he feels stubble prickle his fingers. Rubbing them and feeling muscle give way to his thicker hands he can’t suppress the grin on his face as he feels the prickly hairs quickly thicken and curl longer, painting his chest with a beautiful forest of hair. His dick immediately surges to the largest size it can achieve in the confines of his dress pants.

Awash in feeling every new inch of his hairier, more powerful body Oliver stands up and gasps as he sees abs clearer than anything underneath the new layer of hair on his stomach. His knees give way as his hips uncontrollably thrust while he stares down at his form growing sexier by the second. He barely catches himself from falling with his right hand on the table as his body continues to hump his pants to no end, while his left trails across his body to discover the new surprises that cover each and every inch. Hesitant to trail towards the package bulging larger in his crotch, he traces his abs back up to his chest and rests on his clavicle. There does he find the greatest surprise yet, barely gracing the tips of his fingers, a beard beginning to push out on a face that has always been unfortunately clean shaven.

While it took browsing Web and the intrusion of his workplace enemy for Gabriel’s conscious mind to give in to the euphoria of being a new, greater man, the feeling of a beard inching thicker on Oliver’s face is more than enough to give himself over to anything. This alongside whatever corrupting virus is coursing through him to cause these changes, it’s no wonder he falls to the floor and begins thrusting a hole in his pants. His meaty thighs and monumental ass make light work of his dress pants as his cock angles itself upwards, out of the waistline of his impossibly tight underwear. Even while in the process of spraying load after load into the carpet of his office, his balls continue churning, always heavy and ever wanting more release. Ever demanding he find more avenues to spread his changes and heighten his own bliss.

Now laying on the floor, every exhilarating movement packs more pounds of muscle onto his bulging new body. More pressing than that however is the pelt making its mark everywhere it sees fit to spread. His pubes grow thick enough that no light shall ever touch the base of his cock again before they spread upwards to paint his stomach with dark curls. The deodorant he threw on this morning hasn’t a breath of a chance against the new musk that issues forth from his pits as the bushes therein grow thicker than that on his head before stretching outwards to connect with those new heady hairs he so delighted in on his chest. The hairs around his nipples grow thick enough almost to hide them as he continues frotting against the carpet.

His biceps burn with the effort of holding his body up as veins bulge down the diameter of his meaty arms, thick strands of hair quickly trailing behind to make clear his undeniable masculinity. He feels new curls itching against the back of the elastic band of his underwear as it only just hangs in there. Dark curls reach up the small of his back and quickly race to cover his ass cheeks like fuzz on a peach, creating a seamless jungle of curls from his hairy inner thighs to a dense thicket still inching higher on his back; growing into a forest perfect to be grabbed by anyone lucky enough to ride his prodigious cock.

After an especially vocal release, his shoulders burn as his traps bulge larger, which brings a certain someone’s touch to mind. Sniffing the air he finds himself in a haze of his own musk, though the musk smells awfully similar to that of the man who almost started masturbating in front of him. Following his more sensitive nose, the intern crawls over to Gabriel’s office and confirms his suspicions. Oliver smirks as he imagines that the horny freak is probaly equally wanting of a fuck buddy.

Pulling himself up to his feet on the doorway, he grunts as his knees wobble a bit and his cock tries to convince him that humping the floor is good enough. Staying strong and holding the human instinct that some things are worth the effort, he walks on feet hairier than paws and wider than flippers to the elevator where he begins a descent to the company gym. Snapping a picture to text his boss he smirks as he thinks despite what Gabriel always says, perhaps working in a start-up has some perks after all.

It isn’t clear precisely what happened on the Fall day when men across the Bay Area began changing into, well, sex-crazed beasts. Some assume it was some strange chemical leak. Others say that it was some spontaneous evolution, though to what end such pleasure seeking changes could help a species is unclear. Some particularly conspiracy-minded folks think the whole thing was a ploy by a Social Media startup that was taking off with men precisely like the ones who changed. Though at the end of the day it doesn’t quite matter how or why they changed but how to prevent it from spreading. Across the nation, men of every walk of life are rapidly changing despite taking the best precautions.

Closing gyms, quarantining those changing, racing to find any treatment to help those losing their minds and their bodies. Nothing seems to help as every day more men are blowing up with muscle, growing hairier with symptom spreading musk, and losing themselves to their uncontrollable lusts. At this point it’s seeming like there’s nothing that could possibly be done to stop the spread of changes, but hey, at least it seems like they’re happy.

#male tf #occam2000 #hair growth #mental change #musk tf #dumber #muscle tf #jockification #masculinization #male transformation

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desigal-26 · 2 months ago

Text

My first F1 writing. Please be gentle in criticising. Requests are open if anyone wishes to request something.

The Enigma

Max Verstappen x Fem!Driver!Reader

She was different—an enigma. He was the moth drawn to her.

She took the world by storm when she came and he couldn’t stay away from her.

Warnings: Misogyny towards the reader, mention of hate comments and haters, it’s my first ever F1 related writing so please I am sorry for any mistake in advance, Max lowkey simping(?), Reader assumes the position of Yuki in this but I changed the results of the Chinese GP a bit…so don’t hate me (pretty please 🥹)

Word Count: 2.3k

Formula One—a sport rooted in unpredictably and high-stake risks that have ended in many accidents, fatal and otherwise, over the course of its seventy five years. Things changed. Cars changed. Rules and points system changed. Security measures changed to accommodate the safety of the driver above all perimeters. But what didn’t change was the lack of its reach to the marginalised sections of the population.

Women. Third world countries—or even the developing countries. People without much source or wealth but talent. People of colour.

It was disheartening, and while everyone might have given it a thought once or twice, no one did anything. And why would they? Because Formula One is a sport that might change on track but the core values of it ever really changed—and included the exclusion of certain sectors of life.

It was a news—a world shocking one—when Racing Bulls proudly announced that a female driver—a F2 prodigy and Red Bulls Junior Driver Programme member—will be joining the team in the second seat of the sister team, replacing Liam Lawson who was promoted to the main team to drive alongside Max Verstappen—the Four Times Winning Dutch Lion.

The media called it a PR stunt, a chance to make the headlines and divert attention from the deteriorating situation of the RB20, or perhaps a way of saying “we don’t know what we are doing anymore”. The fan reactions were mixed too. Some hailed the move and inclusion of a woman in motorsport after a long time—especially in Formula One—while others called it “uncalled for” and a “waste of time”.

When asked about the situation and how it would affect her race as a whole, the Racing Bulls’ newest driver had only given a diplomatic smile and a simple answer. “I suppose we will see the results on the track.”

The Australian GP wasn’t a good start for her, ending up in a bad position despite a solid qualifying and ultimately being left heartbroken and out of points because of a strategy that was never going to work out. But one thing was certain after the race—whosoever started and ended the race deserved their respective seats, and she was one of them—even if the haters and the misogynists hiding behind the curtains of ‘traditionalists’ mocked her for not having a decent finish.

But what Christian Horner and Helmut Marko and the whole world saw in the grid positions couldn’t be ignored. While Liam Lawson—the replacement of Sergio Perez—had failed to even bring the car to the checkered flag, their rookie—“replacement’s replacement” as the media likes to mock her—had done so in torrential rain in a car that was less competitive and feisty than the RB21, even if she was still out of the points at P12.

The media chalked it up as a fluke—a one time occurrence that would never happen again, until it did happen again in China. A good qualifying—as good as Racing Bulls can hope for—and a good start of the race had left her in a good position, until an ill-timed pit stop led to her being stuck in traffic, behind the very man whose car she was sitting in.

Liam was struggling, that much was clear to her, and with a radioed confirmation of her outpacing the Red Bull in front of her, she made her move, refusing to bow down to the driver in the senior team. Because why should she? Just because he had a better car and a senior team seat? That didn’t stop her before and it wouldn’t stop her then.

She had scored her first point in Formula One that day—making history in doing so. Becoming the first woman after Lella Lombardi in 1975 to score point, she had proven her worth for the seat she was given, and leading to the ultimate speculations of what if’s when her teammate had ended another race without points at P14 and Liam had followed suit at P16.

Everyone wondered if Christian and Team Red Bull is looking for a switch of drivers before the triple-header started. Speculations ran wild, fans remained restless and rooting for their own favourites while the haters continued to spread word of malice.

On the other hand, in Milton Keynes, the entire team of Red Bull was left in a deep dilemma of choosing between their second driver who refused to perform as well as they expected him to and a rookie that was outqualifying him in a car made to battle the mid-field cars, not a Red Bull.

“We should give her a try,” Hannah Schmitz, the Principal Strategy Engineer of the team, stated with a firm tone, sliding both Christian and Helmut a small bunch of stapled paper holding the raw data of pace on track and little things that make biggest of differences on track. A straightforward and brutal comparison between Liam Lawson and the newest star of the two teams.

The British Team Principal looked at Pierre Waché—their technical director and the man responsible to build the new car as per the new regulations of 2026 for the next year—asking for his take on the matter at hand.

The said man only shrugs, carefully reading through the data kept in the file in front of him. Everyone could see the gears of his mind shifting and churning, processing the data and making the calculations only he could understand.

After a while, Pierre looked up and nodded, quietly stating, “she might find trouble with the car for a lap or two, but she seems to be adaptable.”

Just to be sure, her past championships in F4, F3 and F2 were pulled up and carefully dissected through. Quick decision-making, precise timings, late breaking but at the right times, calm under pressurising conditions, quick adaptability to both the car and the weather and good instincts. Everything they want in their second driver—someone who could help in Red Bull’s campaign for reclaiming the Constructors after last year and help Max’s own campaign for Driver’s Championship.

Therefore, the decision was made.

The initial call had only informed Max about test driving the rookie driver in one of the old RB cars. Maybe RB19 or RB20—which in Max’s opinion, was hard to driver, especially for a rookie who was stepping into a top team car and expecting less…resistance. They had asked him to drop by the Red Bull Ring in Austria, give a lap or two for them to obtain whatever data they wanted to compare her with, and then leave if he wanted to.

Simple. Or so Max had thought.

He had seen her performance in the Racing Bull, had congratulated her when she scored her first point in the Chinese Grand Prix and had lingered around a bit to talk—to advice her for her future stints, he argued with himself. But he knew himself better.

She was friendly in a way that wasn’t common in the sport, easy to talk to and definitely didn’t hold any prejudices against him. He had expected her to be a bit shy, maybe naïve as well, but she wasn’t neither. Initially a bit quiet, probably intimidated by him, but that had soon away gave way for her true self to blossom out, which had, in turn lead to them speaking for a longer time than Max had intended it to be. But he enjoyed it—no, he craved it once she was whisked away by a media personnel and she had offered him a smile that he swore could melt the Himalayas.

It was stupid, he knew. She would most probably be his teammate soon enough. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her or the way she remained so calm under pressure or the way her hair looked in a certain light. But it is not meant to be.

They are not meant to be.

The parking lot of the Red Bull Ring was mostly empty except for the familiar cars of his team and a slightly worn out one parked in the farthest end of the lot. He didn’t give it much attention, not when GP was already making his way to him, already informing him about what was expected of Max to do for the day. A small help, his race engineer had phrased.

“Is she here?” The Dutch driver didn’t even realise the words had slipped out until he saw GP shrug and nod. “Arrived before I did.” That caught the World Champion’s attention. No one in the senior team arrived earlier than his race engineer, not Hannah, not even Christian who was the team principal and usually earlier than a lot of people.

The inside of the garage was bustling as usual and Max immediately caught sight of Christian talking to her in a corner with an encouraging smile. His steps slowed down and his eyes studied her like she was the one race he hadn’t conquered yet.

Her gaze was sharp, sliding over and studying each curve and ridge of the RB19 that was being polished for Max to drive. One of the most dominant cars to have ever been made in the history of Formula One—awaiting for its rider to drive it again to a speed that had all the other teams trembling in its prime. Her hair was neatly tied, the casual clothes traded for the navy blue fireproof overalls of Red Bull. The race suit was undone on top, hanging off her waist while the fire resistant white undershirt stretched over the entirety of her upper body, accentuating her curves in a way that had many engineers and mechanics double taking—not to forget Max himself. Her helmet, balaclava and gloves were perched upon the counter beside her, waiting to be worn and be used by the rookie that had set the world on fire with her performance.

“Max! We were just talking about you!” The driver smiled as Christian hugged him, gesturing for him to join the conversation that seemingly had consisted of the team principal trying to soothe the Racing Bull driver’s nerves while all she had done was give back hums and small replies while studying the car like an expert.

But now, her attention was on the Four Times World Champion, and did Max almost preen at the thought of capturing her interest when all she had done before was provide non-committal replies because she was pre-occupied with an innate thing.

He flashed her a smile, offering his hand while he greeted her, “it’s good to have you here.” She smiled in response, and the Dutch Lion felt himself being pulled into her gravity, her small but no less callous hand slipping into his considerably larger ones with ease. “It’s good to be in the big leagues garage for once,” her smooth voice held its own unique authority that had the air around them stilling.

The hands were retracted and Max mourned the loss of the touch quietly before he began to ask her about random things. Whether she was feeling nervous or had she had her breakfast, before the conversation turned to their respective seasons so far before ending at the small tips for her for handling the RB19 efficiently.

He was called away to get dressed and slip into the car and do his job, and the thought of her and the outer world just disappeared until all that remained for Max was himself, the humming of the car beneath him and the track in front of him.

It was a quick in and out. Two laps of speed before he was called in and the car was parked in the garage, the Dutch driver emerging out of his chariot with ease of a king stepping into his kingdom—knowing full well that no one can challenge him here, much less beat him.

His blue eyes fell on the woman that stood in the corner, gloves slipping on while her own gaze was on him. He could see the spark of appreciation in them, a good impression—not that he needed one to prove his worth to her. The whole world knew what he could do—what he can do.

“Thanks, Max. You can stay if you want to see her test drive.” Christian patted his shoulder like a proud father, gesturing to the rookie whose balaclava was in place and helmet was going on, concealing her features but not her sharp eyes that seek only one thing: to prove that she was here because of her talent and not her face or sympathy.

Usually, he never stays. He doesn’t need to. Because for Max, these test drives and comparing contrasting is a waste of time. Because no test drive or practice can prepare someone for the real race—when nineteen cars fight against you in unpredictable situations with the weight of expectation weighing your shoulders down and insecurity clawing at your mind.

But something in him relented against the idea of leaving.

Perhaps, he only wanted to see the potential of the enigma that had walked into the garage with a quiet strength only a few possessed, or perhaps, he knew that while he might give himself several dozen excuses for every word he had spoken to her—she was different, and he wanted to know her. Solve the puzzle that she was.

“I will stay.”

If Christian was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, the team principal only handed him a headphone and the duo waited in silence as the RB19 made its way to the track again—this time with a driver that might become their next big hope for competing against the McLaren and their killer driver line up.

“Starting Lap One.”

And so, the Red Bull garage held breath.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #driver!reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #max verstappen fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 2025

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gguk-n · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 2- First Encounters

Arranged For Love (Carlos Sainz Jr x Reader)

Series Masterlist

Summary- Maybe grandma knows best. Maybe Y/N and Carlos should start listening to Y/N's grandma.

You could only imagine what had gone down in the Kastner household. You could hear Y/N screaming. She wasn't happy and she was about to make it known. "Mum, this is crazy. I'm not marrying some crusty old dude" she shouted. "Sweetheart, he isn't some crusty old dude." her mother emphasised. "A little older than you sure but he is a handsome man" her mother reasoned. "No." she retorted, "Dad, I get why you can't say no to your mother but this is just atrocious. You are forcing your daughter like in the 1500s to marry a random man grandma chose" she whined looking at her father on the verge of tears. "Angel, it's nothing like that. Carlos is a nice man, he comes from a nice family. I literally grew up with his father. I'm sure if you met him you'll like him" her father reasoned. "Yeah, sure" she replied sarcastically running a hand through her hair. "I-You-ugh-" she sighed, "You guys met each other during your masters programme and then fell in love naturally, got married and had children. Why do I not get the chance to find some one? Go out on dates, have my heartbroken a few times before I find the one but you guys won't even let me be a stupid young adult in peace" she sighed, angry tears falling from her eyes. "Oh, no sweetheart, please don't cry." her mother tried to console her. "Please, leave. I don't want to talk to you guys right now" she stated pushing them out and closing the door. Her parents sighed, "She'll come around" her father cajoled her mother.

Carlos senior wasn't having very much luck with Carlos junior either. "Dad, I don't get it. I met this lady, who apparently left a lasting impact on you, good for you" junior emphasised, "like once. I'm not marrying her grand daughter." junior tried to reason. "Son, she is a good woman. I'm sure the grand daughter must be just as good and fun to be around as well." senior said. "I have a felling you two will get along well" senior spoke. "You don't know that. I don't want to marry someone just because" junior stated. "I think you should meet her. After that, we'll think about it" senior tried to coerce his son to join them for dinner. Junior was so annoyed with his parents and some how both his sisters for on their side. Carlos couldn't believe he was being forced into meeting a girl they wanted to marry him off to.

Carlos knew that there was no way to avoid the dinner since his father would personally drag him there if he didn't comply and he had no plans of finding his father's brute strength out. So, reluctantly Carlos got dressed and went with his family.

Y/N, on the other hand, hadn't left her room since the outburst she had a few hours ago. Her mother her tried to reason with her to get her to come out to no avail. It was only after her grandmother came to talk to her, "Sweetheart, it's me" her grandma knocked her door. "I know you're angry at me. Stay angry but do meet him once" she said. "I don't want to" Y/N shouted. "Give it a try. This old woman has seen a few things in her time" she chided. "I'll embarrass you if you force me" Y/N retorted. "Go ahead. I don't mind" her grandma spoke. "Just remember, I'll be gone in sometime and you'll remember what I said" her grandma sighed. The door clicked open, "Why would you say that?" Y/N asked in tears. "Honey, because it is true and I just want what's best for you" she explained. "I want you around forever, that's best for me" Y/N spoke barely above a whisper. "I'll try to fight off the grim reaper" Anika laughed. "Now, will you get dressed, they'll be here soon" her grandma asked. And that's how Y/N got dressed and joined them for dinner.

The Sainz had already arrived and were talking to the Kastner's when Y/N entered the living room. The place felt slightly cramped with the number of guests who were sat in that room but extremely homely. Y/N scanned the room, her eyes darting from one face to another until they rested on a dashing young man. He looked like a model, it couldn't be the guy her family was trying to set her up with, could it? she thought. Her grandmother beckoned Y/N towards her and introduced everyone to Y/N. "It's nice to meet you" she said with a tight lipped smile. Yes that man was handsome but she wasn't giving them the satisfaction by caving in within seconds of seeing him.

As she moved down the line, greeting everyone, she couldn't wait to be introduced to Carlos. "That's Carlos junior, he's a Formula One driver" her grandmother mentioned as Y/N shook his hand. "It's so nice to meet you too" Carlos said, his accent thick. Y/N felt a shudder run down her spine as Carlos spoke. "That's my lovely grand daughter, Y/N, I've told you so much about" her grandmother said. Y/N turned to see her grandma gleaming with joy. Oh, she was a sucker for Spaniards, this wasn't good; she couldn't let them have their way, she thought. When she had returned to her grandmother's side, "He's the guy I'm hoping you'll marry" she whispered in Y/N's ear.

Carlos wasn't sure what he was expecting but he was not expecting to have his breath be taken away. When Y/N entered the room, visible annoyance on her face, Carlos found his lips twitching. He didn't believe in love at first site but he might've just experienced it. Her hands were soft and warm, he felt a spark as they met to greet each other, he only hoped she felt the same. Carlos was a goner and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to his dad or this Y/N girl.

After a little while of chatting and stolen glances on both Y/N and Carlos's part; they couldn't let the other know they were interested, it would be a told you so moment for their parents and they had no interest in inflating their ego. The families moved outside which had been turned into a makeshift dining room to accommodate everyone. Y/N and Carlos were pushed together to be sat next to each other in hopes that they would start making small talk.

Y/N was slightly intimidated by him if she was being honest, the more she looked at him, the more heart beat faster. He looked like he was carved by God, he was pretty and handsome to look at. His hair was tousled so perfectly, and his eye lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked, his lips were so soft and plump, she wondered what they felt like.

Carlos wasn't any better. His eyes scanned her face, the way her nose scrunched when her family said something or the way her hair flowed as she tried to tie it back or the way her jewellery reflected against the soft light of the candles. He was mesmerised, her laugh was so full of life, it made him smile. She was so full of life, always keeping the conversation going with everyone but him. He thought, did she dislike the idea that much that she had barely spoken to him the whole night, choosing to address anyone but him as everyone had dinner. Maybe he was hurt, a little, he wouldn't lie.

After dinner, Anika noticed how the two of them had barely interacted or spoken to each other, much to her dismay. So, she took matters into her own hands; "Why don't the two of you walk around for a bit? Maybe Y/N can show you the house. You both will get bored with all the adult talk" she tried to shush them away. "But our siblings are still here" Y/N tried to reason. "They are going to watch a movie or something. You should show Carlos around" her grandmother insisted and pushed the pair away.

Y/N and Carlos walked away, "Hi" she said meekly. "Hi" Carlos replied. The backyard was darker now, only lit by the moon light. "So, you race" Y/N trailed off. "Yeah, Formula One. Do you watch?" he asked. "Honestly, no. Heard about it today" she replied sheepishly. "Never been a huge sports girl" she tried to ease the situation. "My siblings watch I guess" she tried to lighten the mood. "Yeah, they told me. They're big fans it seems." Carlos spoke. "Maybe you guys could come to a race, when it's possible" Carlos suggested. "I'm sure they'll love that" she smiled. Carlos felt his heart beat faster. "Won't you be joining them?" Carlos asked hopefull. "I don't get the sport" she stopped when Carlos's mood seem to dampen, "but if you'll explain it to me, maybe I'll enjoy it" she chuckled nervously. God, this habit of nervous laughter was gonna end her, she thought. Carlos seemed to cheer up after that. They walked around for a bit. Y/N even showed him the house.

"Have you ever visited Madrid?" Carlos asked towards the end of their tour. "No, always wanted to though" she replied. "Then you should, you have a tour guide ready" he said pointing at himself. "I don't want to bother you" she smiled. "I don't think it would be much of a bother really." Carlos smiled back. "Maybe we could exchange number, incase I come to Madrid" she said shyly. "Sure" Carlos said quickly exchanging their phones.

"When should we plan the wedding?" Anika asked the two couples. "Let the kids decide" Ivan spoke. "I would but I think Y/N won't marry him out of spite" Anika laughed. "Would she?" Rose thought out. "I think a winter or spring wedding would be wonderful, nothing fancy." Anika stated. "I'll have to discuss that with Carlos" Carlos senior said. "Sure sure, take your time" Anika said.

In Anika's eyes the dinner felt like a success. The two of them were talking cordially. "I think this was a success" she told Ivan and Carlos senior. The two men looked at each other than Anika, "We agree" they said looking at Carlos and Y/N talking as they returned back to the living room. "How did you find the place Carlos?" Anika asked. "It's nice" Carlos replied. "I'm happy you had fun" Anika said patting his back. "Come back whenever you want. You're always welcome" she insisted.

Everyone hugged each other good bye. Anika had gotten teary eyes as she bid everyone good bye. "I don't know when I'll ever get to you all again" she spoke slowly. "Don't say that. You'll live long" Carlos senior spoke hugging her. "It was nice meeting you" Carlos whispered in Y/N's ear. "yeah. come back sometime" Y/N said. "Do keep in touch" Carlos said. "I will." Y/N spoke.

Y/N felt giddy as she got changed. She hadn't felt this way, whenever she hung out with any guy. He had a great personality with his breath-taking looks. She found herself hovering over his number a few time over the next couple days.

While back at his races, Carlos found himself thinking about Y/N. It was weird for him to be this preoccupied with anything like this other than racing. He hoped she would text him some time since he was too scared to do it himself.

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