#So sorry kelly haha | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?”

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad.

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed.

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly.

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning.

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job.

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly.

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window.

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.”

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before.

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say.

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08.

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile.

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing, a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but).

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little.

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation.

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip.

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly.

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile.

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs.

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours.

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate.

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together.

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing.

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his.

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity.

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor.

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.”

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks.

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

“The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

#f1 #leclsrc3000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader

1K notes · View notes

jkvjimin · 3 months

Text

CREATOR GAME TAG - post some of your gifs before and after coloring!

i was tagged by my loved talented bbs @raplinenthusiasts & @cosmicdreamgrl thank you so much, this is my fave game tag around here! :')

sorry to put so many... had no idea i have saved that many... i mean, i know i saved some because i was waiting for kelli to start the wave again haha but wow... what a ride! anyway. there are some i really love, some that was really painful and some that i dislike but everything here i made from scretch so i have to be proud of 😅

won't the original posts tho! is too late here and i really have to go to bed to start my monotonous monday.

now i will tag other talented ones:

@heybaetae @jung-koook @kimtaegis @cordiallyfuturedwight @rjshope

@kth1 @jinstronaut @yooboobies @magicshop @namchyoon

@oumoumimi @agustd3 @btsjk-biased @jeonwonwoo @userarmyhope

(and whoever wants to!!!) i hope it's okay tag you guys!! please no pressure at all 💜

#btsedit #tag game #game tag #cc tag #userkelli #annietrack #usersky #tuserandi #userdimple #raplineuser #rjshope #userzaynab #gif #i know the correct is “tag game” i just like game tag more asdklasd

89 notes · View notes

so-much-for-the-seashells · 2 months

Note

colt seavers x reader fic please!!

something fluffy, him being jealous, pining, being flirty.. thanks!!

A/N: Thank you so much for the request, Anon!! Hope you like this!! I’ve really missed writing for Colt! Sorry for how long this took- my writing process is either very slow or very fast, no happy medium haha. Now, I really hope you like this interpretation- if not, feel free to send another ask!<3

Also, I ended up writing Jody out, it just made a little more sense in this story.

Other than that, still searching for a beta reader! DM if interested!!

Content Warnings: None aside from a little cursing! This is as Anon asked, very fluffy! :)

Also, this switches between the reader & Colt’s standpoint!

Enjoy! Xx

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••i

Reader’s POV

I’ve been working on my movie, ‘Dreams of Maybe,’ for about a year now. It’s to be my directorial debut, and because of that the pressure has been on. Debuts are a bit of a superstitious event for new directors: they either make or break your career, even if it’s only the getgo. Sure, some can get back on their feet if they get a second chance, and others end up making a name for themselves for solely directing god-awful movies, but I don’t have time for that. For a second chance, for none of it. This movie is a culmination of everything I’ve worked for during film school and even before, and nothing is going to deter me.

Now, despite its name, “Dreams of Maybe” is an action movie. Throughout the movie, the main character, a woman called Hyleia, wrestles with the turmoil of fighting the war her home planet, Kalythea, is engaged in. As per the title, she dreams of the “maybes” that could happen after the war-maybe settling down with the love of her life, N’era; maybe finally getting a Orundaw (this world’s version of a dog); etc. But, as a warrior, Hyleia knows that those maybes could also be poverty; her world falling back into fascism as it had been when she was young; etc.

Jenny Sikes, the writer and genius behind all of this, was still developing the ending, but I have extremely high hopes. And thus far everything’s been running smoothly. I had gone into this thinking I would have to have a stick up my ass and be “tough,” but thankfully that hadn’t had to happened.

If anything, I’m really enjoying the process. To the point that even if somehow this incredible film- sure, I’m biased, but it actually is that good- flops, the friends I’ve made and experiences I’ve had would almost make up for it. Almost because, you know, I’d be out of job. Details, details.

Aside from Jenny, who is probably my closest friend on set, I’ve also bonded with Kelly Newman and Kora Kline, the women playing Hyleia and N’era respectively; as well as man who was playing the leader of the fleet warring against Kalythea, a warmonger called Jöl. The actor’s name is Reed Smith, and contrary to his character he is one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met. And very handsome, at that- refined good looks with messily bleached hair that went with his character. He’s a proper Mr. Hollywood, minus the controversy and overall bitchiness.

My producer had also managed to get Fall Guy Stunts to sign on to the movie, which was phenomenal. Well, the producer just closed the deal. It was really our stunt coordinator, a man named Dan, who recommended the company as he’d worked with a man called Colt Seavers before, and claimed he was the best in business.

I didn’t end up meeting him until it was time for the indoor explosion. The scene itself is a red herring, a false sense of victory. Hyleia thinks she’s blown up Jöl inside of the negotiations building. Their leader was supposed to be the one to fire the bomb, but unexpectedly got shot down out of the sky and in a fit of adrenaline Hyleia detonated it from the ground, barely surviving. However, because of that she ended up having a target placed on her back by Jöl. It’s a whole thing.

Anyway, Dan and I wanted to go big on at least one stunt, and the producer suggested we do an indoor explosion- sort of a bigger, crazier one than the one in The Fifth Element.

I was a little skeptical, as indoor explosions are extremely dangerous and 100% real. Hence Colt Seavers being hired. “Best in the business,” or so says his reputation. The stunt was early in in the production and a last minute decision. At the time we didn’t think we were going to exceed what Reed could handle as far as stunts go, but we were wrong. Thankfully Colt owed Dan a favor- something about a Stallone autograph gone wrong- and the former was willing to step in as Reed’s stunt double with a 25% discount.

As it turns out, I had no reason to stress. Colt Seavers really is the best in the business, the statement was in no way hyperbolic. He literally got into the Guinness Book of World Records for it the stunt, which subsequently put our movie on the map. This was an enormous deal- the film had went from “just another sci-fi fantasy action drama” to “already on the map” within days, at least in movie buff circles.

He had managed the indoor explosion with ease, due to his own expertise and due to impeccable form. He looks like a walking action hero, and the sight alone is enough to take anyone’s breath away upon meeting him.

And if the sight’s good, the personality? He’s the sweetest, most easy-going, flirtiest man I’ve ever met with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a coffee addiction to boot. He likes plants and animals, musicals and Audrey Hepburn movies. He looks like the epitome of the action genre, and yet is actually a sweet man who is in touch with his feelings and interests. Extremely endearing if you ask me.

And sure, I might have a small crush on him. But I don’t think anything would come of it- we’ve made friends and that seems to be that.

But sometimes I do think about how nice it would be to sit at a coffee table doing puzzles with him, kissing his pink lips over the table as we go along.

But again, the magic “friends” word.

Reed thinks something will come of it, as Colt and I do spend a decent amount of time together, but honestly, I don’t know if I believe him.

Anyways, I’m currently outside of my trailer, sitting at a picnic table, in dire need of fresh air and a spark of creativity. Being outdoors has always helped me get the ideas flowing; maybe it’s the crickets and the birds. Maybe I subconsciously recognize what they’re saying and turn it into my own words. Or maybe I’m fucking freezing, because it’s the middle of winter in Canada and I’m inappropriately dressed. Who’s to say.

Although really, I should probably get my parka… the soft snow is beautiful, glimmering under the sun, but my sweater and leggings aren’t exactly cutting it.

The thing is, though all credit as far as screenplay goes to Jenny Sikes, I’ve actually been very involved in creating the story. Which means I’m also involved in helping find this elusive ending.

This stupid, needs-to-be-perfect, impossible, unattainable ending.

We’ve been spitballing ideas for the past few days now, but none of them feel right.

There’s the unexpected ending: Kalythea ends up getting destroyed by Jöl’s fleet alongside Hyleia and her lover. Sure, it would be depressing, but it’s certainly plausible given the pretext of the “negative maybes.”

Or maybe we use the too-good-to-be-true ending: Hyleia wins, gets the girl; Kalythea rebuilds itself for the better this time, doesn’t fall back into its well established patterns of fascism. That’s the most popular ending in the writers room as of now, but Jenny and I are still holding out for something better.

We owe the film something perfect. Something right. Something fitting.

We’re just running out of time to find it.

And I might be running out of time to live with how inhospitable it is out here. (Let it be known that I don’t much care for being cold.)

Just as I begin to recognize how cold I am, a comfortingly familiar voice breaks the silence. It’s low and soft, with a slight rasp to it that makes you hang on every word. And I love it.

“Y/n L/n, as I live and breathe,” Colt Seavers says by way of greeting, handing me a coffee. It’s in a (y/f/c) mug, which is honestly very endearing of him. I take it graciously in both hands, the warmth of the steam much appreciated.

“Colt Seavers, as I choke and die of hypothermia,” I say from behind the coffee, my teeth chattering.

“Aw, don’t do that,” he chuckles, his baby-blue eyes sparkling like the snow around us. He sits next to me, and I immediately feel warmer, his presence alone making me feel better.

“Why not?” I ask, turning to look at him, our legs touching.

“Cause then who would I have to talk to?”

“I dunno, Dan?” I suggest.

“Meh,” he shrugs, downing half of his own coffee. This man is an addict.

“You don’t mean that,” I gasp sarcastically.

“You’re right, I don’t,” he concedes. “Please don’t tell him,” he asks, dramatics in his voice.

“For now,” I wink, and we both share a soft laugh.

“You’re shivering- do you want my jacket?” he asks considerately, already pulling his puffy yellow jacket.

“Oh, that’s okay-,” I protest, not wanting to deprive him of warmth, but he cuts me off.

“Here, I knew you’d say that,” he smiles, handing it to me. I have to smile back at that, shaking my head at how well he knows me.

“Thanks,” I say, putting it on. It’s super warm, and it smells like him. I like it. I rest my head against his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“Nah, it’s one of my stunt-guy superpowers,” he puts his arm around me, hand grazing up and down my arm to keep me warm. I gaze up at him, mesmerized by his eyes before realizing...

“Your lips are already blue,” I observe aloud.

“It’s my lip gloss,” he jokes through chattering teeth.

“Uh huh,” I agree with skepticism.

“H-how do you still manage to look g-g-gorgeous e-even while you’re drowning in my j-jacket,” he attempts to flirt, his clattering teeth most definitely ruining the effect he was going for. And yet still he makes the butterflies in my stomach come alive, just like he always does. I like when he flirts with me, I really do. But I also think that’s just how he talks with people, y’know?

But maybe…

Colt’s POV

I am so, so glad that Dan called in that favor all those months ago.

Look, having your own stunt production is great. Fantastic, even. You get to pick your own hours, do your own jobs, etc.

But being the owner means that you just sit around for the most part, assigning your crew to the good stuff while you just wait for the next call. And honestly, it’s so, so boring.

For a normal person, that might be the dream. Finally getting to relax. But my career has been anything but normal, especially after the whole Tom Ryder incident a few years ago. The dipshit was going to frame me for murder with the help of a producer I was once close to. As far as I know they’re both going to be behind bars for a while, but I had worked for and with them for about fifteen years. Finding out that they were such bad people made those years seem worthless, as if they weren’t real.

So, before Dan called me to work on ‘Dreams of Maybe,’ I was bored. Bored and itching for the next thing. I had fallen back into my habit of picking up as many random hobbies as possible- at the time I think I was most fixated on crocheting, especially those little stuffed animals. But, being ADHD means that I can’t stick with one thing for too long- it’s why my place back home is littered with fishbowls and puzzles, paint-by-numbers and table top sports among other things. And when Dan called, I was maybe days away from finding the next thing.

At the great thanks of my house he called, and for the first time I was back in the game. He had told me that I’d be doing stunts for Reed Smith, an up and coming a-lister who’s been in a lot of action movies as of late. I really liked him in “House of Ruins,” but the stunts were a little dull for my taste. But hey, that’s what I’m here for. For some inane reason I missed getting set on fire and thrown at walls.

The indoor explosion scene ended up turning out absolutely fantastically, and because of how good it was I decided to stick around, help the film get more prestige in the action-stunt world.

Not to mention that the literal world record wasn’t too shabby in of itself.

But it’s not even just the stunts.

I’m back in the saddle, but not only am I back in it but I’m back in it with my best friend Dan. I’ve missed hanging out with him, and how much I can trust him as coordinator.

Also, y/n. She’s the director of the movie, and wow. You know in the movies, when the guy sees the girl and his entire perspective changes? That’s how I feel about y/n. She’s incredible, she’s witty, and you know what? It’s cheesy, but she’s better than the movies could ever hope to be.

We’d hit it off after the indoor explosion, and it was like we’d known each other forever. We had a habit of going to the beach (back when it was warm) or getting coffee off set pretty much everyday, and it’s been pretty awesome.

I like to bother her, because it’s hilariously adorable when she gets flustered. It’s stupid stuff- I drive a little too recklessly sometimes (like stunt driving. I wouldn’t actually put her in danger) or I’ll sneak up on her and get a little jump out of her. Sue me, it’s fun.

Not to mention the tiny detail that I am irrevocably in love with her. I don’t really know when it happened- maybe it was from day one- but she just makes me feel so alive. I’ve been trying to get the balls to tell her, but as of now I’ve come to the conclusion that I won’t say anything if she does.

I think there’s a chance she could be into me, but honestly, I don’t know. If she is, it would be fantastic. If she’s not, that’s okay too, she’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had. (Don’t tell Dan)

It’s just one of those things. We just… we have these moments, where it seems like maybe we’re a little more than friends.

You know, those long looks that dip their pinky toes into longing, laughing at jokes that aren’t even funny…

Or even just the way she lays her head on my chest, like today. She’s so comfortable there, my jacket far too big on her as she looks up at me with those gorgeous (y/e/c) eyes. She’s adorable, and I’m just fine with dying of hypothermia if it means I get to look at her as I go.

Okay, I’m not going to die.

I think.

You get the point.

“You know, you’re a lot smoother when you’re not freezing to death,” she tells me. There’s a slight note of concern behind the sarcasm, something you’d only be able to catch if you’ve hung out with her long enough.

“Wh-who n-needs to be sm-smooth when th-they’re t-telling th-the truth?” I ask, the cold stopping me from getting any word longer than one syllable out properly. Real attractive, Seavers.

Hypothermic climate aside, this is how a lot of our time together is spent. Drinking coffee in random places, me trying to flirt and her retorting with her endless supply of sarcasm. I wouldn’t trade anything for it.

“Mhm, let’s get you inside, champ,” she says, standing up. Already I miss the warmth of her resting against my chest, the closeness.

Good grief, dipshit. Get it together.

But once she extends a hand for me to take I’m back in cloud-nine, happy to be touching her.

See what I mean? I think I’m losing it. Or I’m just whipped like Dan says.

She leads me back to her trailer, barely ten feet from where we had been sitting. I can’t help but sigh of relief at feeling the warm air in the trailer. She laughs and gestures for me to sit on the little forest green sofa. I comply, setting my drink on the coffee table in front of the couch. She disappear into a little nook of the place before re-emerging with a big fluffy grey blanket that she must’ve pulled from her bed.

“Here,” she tosses the fluff over me, making my heart leap. I can’t help it, it’s just the y/n-effect.

“Thanks,” I say, shivering.

She walks over to her small kitchen space, and a few minutes later comes back with two mugs. She hands me one, then sits by me. Well more like on me, because there’s a whole sofa and her were touching everywhere. She’s adorable. And I love seeing her in my jacket… man, I’m going to have to tell her at some point.

I must’ve instinctively put my arm around her shoulders, because she hums contentedly and looks up at me. “Y’wanna watch The Fifth Element? I need something to get me in an ideas mood.”

Ohh, she must’ve been out there trying to figure out the ending. That’s what she does: she thinks outdoors. She finds it easier to think.

Of course, I’ll gladly watch The Fifth Element with her. Just as I’ve gladly watched it with her 7 other times.

“Of course,” I tell her, surprised that she can’t feel the way my heart is beating out of my chest from the smile she gives me. I genuinely get a little sad when she gets up to get the remote, but when she lays back against me any trace of negativity immediately dissipates. She’s got me wrapped around her fingers.

We watch a good chunk of the movie in comfortable silence, sipping our cocoa and staying under the blankets. She never takes off my jacket, and frankly I hope she keeps it; it looks better on her anyway.

“Wait, shit, what time is it?” she asks, suddenly sitting up and almost conking my chi with the back of her head.

“Uhh,” I check my watch. “Seven, why?”

“Damnit, I was supposed to meet the crew at the bar… half an hour ago.”

“Shit, I completely forgot about that.” Dan had invited me, it was supposed to be a hangout for the main actors and the rest of the “inner circle”- ie yours truly, Dan, y/n, etc. “We can take my truck?” I offer.

“But I’m so warm?” She protests, even though she’s the one that remembered we needed to go, which again, is adorable. Just like everything about her. Just like the way she’s wrapping herself tighter in my jacket which is at least three sizes too big on her.

“Keep the jacket, and maybe we can come back here?” I suggest, attempting to entice her.

She pretends to mull it over for a second, her hand tapping on her chin. “Can we finish the movie later?”

“Yeah,” I grin.

“Okay,” she mirrors the expression, and once again I’m feeling those damned school girl butterflies. When she takes my hand in hers to help me up it’s all I can do not to pull her back and kiss her senseless. But now isn’t the time.

Come to think of it…

When is?

Reader’s POV

We’re in Colt’s truck, as usual sitting unnecessarily close to one another under the guise of how cold it is.

I love wearing his jacket, being surrounded by his comforting coffee scent and his residual warmth in the fuzz. And he’s let me keep it- even if he only meant for tonight he’s not getting it back.

I love him. So much. And I want to tell him, but I also don’t want to put my foot in my mouth, y’know. And I can’t risk our friendship, it’s just too comfortable. Too comfortable to lose.

We get to the bar, and just like always he hops out of the car and quickly runs to the passenger side to open the door for me, extending a hand to help me down. I love his insistence on being chivalrous, yet another one of his endearing qualities.

We walk into Johnny’s, the bar that the crew regularly meets at, in comfortable silence. And again, we’re standing just a little too close, and again, I don’t mind- the proximity just keeps those butterflies fluttering around in my stomach.

Reed waves at me from a booth in the back corner, sitting at the end of a bench capping Dan, Kora, and Kelly who are sitting in that order.

“Glad you made it!” Reed stands to greet us, giving me a hug. Dan also stands to let Kora and Kelly out, the both of which are presumably heading home. They both say bye to me before heading out arm and arm- the press doesn’t know it yet but they, just like their fictional counterparts, are very much in love. We get seated, and somehow Colt and I are separated- he’s sitting on the inside by Dan while I’m directly across from him sitting next to Reed. The latter gets a round of shots going for the table, and before we know it we’re all laughing about practically nothing, damn near shitfaced. Except, even in my buzzed stupor I notice that Colt’s gone uncharacteristically stony… weird.

I leen into Reed’s side, laughing about a story he’s telling about how he got stuck in the harness on one of the few stunts he did. Almost ripped his underwear off too.

Now before you get any ideas, I’m don’t sit super close with just anyone. With Colt it’s because I like him, like, like him; with Reed it’s because we’re just close. Not because we’re dating or have something weird going on, it’s because we’re friends. Also, he doesn’t swing my way to begin with. Another nugget the press has yet to pick up on, for better or worse. Except this little nugget is something that hardly anyone knows- I’m probably one of five-ish.

But I don’t like how sad Colt looks right now… did I do something? I really hope not. But he’s smiling again at something Dan interjects with, so maybe I just imagined it. I don’t know. I throw back another shot, hoping the additional buzz destroys whatever downer-mood is trying to creep in right now.

But the thing is, as the night goes on he still looks sad. He only gives me one word answers and hardly acknowledges me otherwise, and it hurts a little. So I just keep throwing them back until I’m a train wreck- and not just any train wreck, an upset train wreck. I really hope I didn’t manage to fuck something up here. I’d say he thinks there’s something between me and Reed, but why would he even care if there was? I don’t think he likes me like that. I wish he did, but I just don’t know.

I think I’m ready to go home.

Colt’s POV

I wasn’t expecting her to be into Reed, but so be it, I guess… it still hurts though. I’m already planning on buying some new puzzles to cope. I’m trying not to feel hurt, but I can’t help it. Jealousy is douchey but it’s still there… ugh.

But she’s just asked me to take her home, so of course I will. She’s drunk off her ass, and I’ve never seen her like this.

I can’t help but wish it was me when I watch her peck Reed on the cheek as goodbye. I need to get it together right now. She deserves someone good for her, and I need to be happy for her. Like a good friend.

And yet, my heart still hurts.

“Colt?” she snaps me out of reality. “I don’t feel so good,” her hand is on her stomach. Shit, she’s going to throw up.

“Alright, come on,” I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her throw the mass of people and saying goodbyes for her, thankfully getting her outside just before she throws up.

“This is like 10 things I hate about you,” she comments wistfully after she’s gotten it out of her system.

“At least you don’t have a concussion,” I quip, reminiscing the movie. That one’s one of my favorites, I can quote the entire thing by heart.

“Yeah,” she looks up at me, holding my hands. I can’t help but notice that she never took off my jacket and how cute she still looks in it, even if she’s just retched up her stomach. Our gazes lock for just a moment too long, and I cough to break the silence.

“Let’s get you home,” I nod my head in the general direction of where my truck is parked.

“Okay,” she agrees, only letting go of one of my hands. I can’t help but smile at that- I didn’t take her for a clingy drunk.

We cross the moon lit parking lot over to my truck, and I all but toss her in- gently, of course- before hopping in myself and starting the engine.

“Thanks, Colt,” she whispers before I put the truck in reverse.

“Yeah, of course, y/n,” I reply, driving off.

Twenty minutes later we’re back in the trailer, and I’ve helped her onto her bed. It took her about ten minutes to get some pajamas on, but finally she’s under that grey comforter.

“Alright, I should probably go,” I say awkwardly, feeling a little shifty.

“Wait,” she says, waiting for me to turn around. “Are you mad at me?” Her voice is tinny and sad, and it about cracks my heart into a million pieces.

“No, y/n, I could never be mad at you,” I tell her honestly, walking back over towards her and kneeling at the side of the bed so my head is level with hers.

“But you looked sad at the bar,” she mumbles.

Dipshit. My face must’ve given me away- I can’t help that it comes with subtitles.

“I wasn’t sad,” I gaslight her. I was just… happy for you and Reed.”

At that she starts laughing, a sound so infectious that I can’t help but smile. “What?” I ask.

“Me and Reed?!” she slurs. “He doesn’t even swing my way… shit I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

Wait. You’re telling me that Reed’s gay? How stupid am I??

“Wait…”

“Colt, I like you,” she says, her voice the los tour together it’s been in a few hours. “Like, like you.”

Wait.

She…

She likes…

She likes me?!

It’s all I can do right now not to pump my fist and and loudly say ‘yes!’ as if I’ve won a sports championship. Any trace of sadness is completely dissipated, because y/n l/n likes-like likes- me.

“Colt?”

Oh, right, I haven’t said anything.

“Look, y/n, we can talk about this more tomorrow,” because I’m not going to influence her while she’s still drunk, “but I need you to know this: I really, really like you. And I have for a long time,” I confess, and if the smile she gave me was my last sight I’d die a beyond happy man.

“Okay,” she whispers, looking me in the eyes.

“Okay,” I tell her. “I’m going to let you get some rest, but we’re going to talk about this more tomorrow, okay?” It’s not that I want to go, but I know it’s better to given her state of mind right now. Plus, the sooner I pass out the sooner I wake up and the sooner we can talk about this.

“Okay,” she agrees.

“Goodnight, y/n,” I stand up, but before I can walk away she grabs my hand. I turn to look at her, a little confused.

“Colt?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you maybe stay with me?” and again, her voice is too sweet to say no to. Like, I would do the indoor-explosion for free if she asked me like this.

I mull it over. I’m not a douche, I wouldn’t do anything while she’s drunk. Maybe I could just sleep on the couch?

“I can go sleep on the couch?” I suggest, parroting my thoughts.

“Noo, here, please,” she pats the bed beside her.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea right now, y/n.”

“Please?” she asks me, giving me puppy dog eyes.

“Fine, fine,” I grumble, as if displeased with the notion of being able to lay next to the love of my life. But she doesn’t even seem to notice my tone as she turn around to face me laying on the bed.

“I like you,” she whispers, before promptly passing out.

I shake my head amusedly. “I like you.”

So, so much.

Reader’s POV

I wake up, expecting to have the gnarliest hangover of all time. Except, by some miracle, all that’s there is a slight headache. Thank everything.

I’m a little groggy at first, but I register a weight draped over my side. Huh?

But then I open my eyes and see Colt, with his messy hair and his peaceful face, sleeping. He’s holding me close, as if I’m some sort of teddy bear. And that’s when I remember our conversation: I told him, and he likes me back!

I smile to myself.

“Hey there, smiley,” his voice comes out groggy, heavily taunted with sleep. I love the way it sounds.

“Hey yourself,” I say, still grinning.

“What are you so happy about?” he teases.

“You. And I’d kiss you right now but I think I have bad morning breath.”

“Well,” he mumbles, getting close. “Morning breath be damned, I want to kiss you too.”

“Well, in the case…” I lean in and press a soft peck to his lips. And it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And now I know it for sure: I’m in love.

Wait.

Love.

The movie.

“The ending!” I shout, reaching over to my phone to text Jenny.

“Wha-,” he asks, obviously confused.

“The ending of the movie. They kiss before the planet blows up.”

“Wait… the planet’s not going to blow up because we just kissed… right?” he jokes.

“I dunno,” I shrug, sending the text and throwing my phone on the chair. “Sorry. I was thinking about the planet blowing up when I thought you were upset with me yesterday, and then this-,” I kiss him again, and he smiles. “Finished the thought train.”

“Huh,” he says, pulling me close. “I like you, so much,” he says, his voice sweet.

“I like you too, so much,” I agree, kissing him again. And one things for sure: I will never get tired of kissing Colt Seavers.

I can’t wait to be able to do everything we’ve always done, just as a couple. Puzzles and paint by numbers where we kiss each other over the coffee table. Maybe he steals one of my books and tries to recreate the scenes. Maybe he kisses me after doing donuts in the truck.

But no matter what maybes come true, the thing to remember is that love is the best part of it.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the line that flashes at the end of the movie, post credits.

Who knows?

All I know is that I love Colt Seavers. And he loves me.

The End <3

#colt seavers #colt seavers fanfiction #colt seavers x reader #colt seavers x you #ryan gosling x reader #the fall guy 2024 #save me colt seavers #fic request

29 notes · View notes

ya-what--ya-erster · 5 months

Text

Goodbye Don't Last Forever

Javey. Kind of funny ngl. Enjoy.

David Jacobs was eighteen and newly graduated when his girlfriend, Francis Sullivan, left for Santa Fe, leaving no goodbye and no way to contact her.

David went crazy when she left. He loved her and she left without a word to him. He made some stupid (but not too regrettable) decisions in the time after. Dyed his dirty blonde hair a dark shade of brown. Started wearing his glasses again. Went outside only when required (as in almost never). Stopped talking to many of his friends.

Only two of the habits died, and fortunately it was those last two. He found himself to be pretty fine within a few months of her being gone.

Six years later, David Jacobs was 24 years old and getting a new roommate.

"Hi, are you David?" A confident voice came from behind him.

He turned to face- woah he's hot- the person asking the question.

"Yeah, yes, that's me. David Jacobs. Hi."

The man smiled and held out a hand to shake.

"Jack Kelly."

Those eyes... that handshake. So familiar. But the familiarity was out of reach in David's mind.

So he stood up a little straighter, smiled back, and said, "Nice to meet you in person finally. I mean I trusted Albert enough to not find me a serial killer roommate but... I feel very assured now, haha..."

"I won't kill ya, Davey."

Davey...

"Good to know. Same here. Do you need help taking anything up?"

Jack shook his head. "All I's got is this." He nodded to a moderately sized suitcase that he was gripping.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's nothing, Dave. I just had to leave kinda quickly and didn't have much anyways."

"Well, uh. Let me uh... I guess, follow me?"

...

David was down bad for his roommate. And, down bad as in like, Taylor Swift "if I can't have him/I might just die it would make no difference."

Something about him, Jack, felt so familiar in all the most wonderful ways. His smile was a smile David felt like he had seen dozens of times.

David wanted to know why. He wanted to know why this boy felt so natural in the environment. Why he seemed to be the missing piece in David's life.

He was going to find out.

Not today though, he decided, when Jack entered the apartment looking like he was about to burst into tears.

"Hey, are you okay?" David asked slowly.

Jack nodded stiffly, putting his head down and throwing his bag and coat to the floor.

"Jack, you look sad."

"I'm fine."

"Jack."

"I ain't- you don't gotta be all in my business." Jack was heading to his tiny bedroom, so David grabbed his arm to stop him.

"You can tell me, you know?"

Jack leaned forward, hugging David, beginning to cry.

"Woah, hey. Hey, it's alright, let it out..." David wished Jack would hug him more often, and not while crying.

Jack continued to cry for maybe three minutes, David didn't know exactly. What David did know is that when Jack made eye contact with him, he looked like he had done something horrible.

"I ain't a real boy, Dave."

David's heart could have shattered just then, hearing Jack sound so broken.

"What do you mean, you aren't a real boy?"

"I wasn't- I'm not- I am a boy. I know and promise that I am but I just- wasn't born that way and I feel like a fraud and I get sad sometimes."

"That's okay to be sad, Jack. But you're a boy, I know you are. If you say you're a boy, you're a boy. No, how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"Okay, Jack Kelly, you are no boy, you're a freakin' man."

Jack smiled a little, wiping his eyes dry.

"Thank ya, Davey."

...

David was having none of this "stay up until 3 AM painting" bullshit.

"Jack Kelly, you will start going to bed at a decent time or so help me-"

"I'm fine, Dave!" Jack defended himself.

"You drank four coffees today and three energy drinks. I don't even know how you're still alive!"

"Fine, fine. I will be in bed no later than midnight."

"Is that the best I'm gonna get?"

"Yup."

David sighed, deciding to give in.

"At least show me what you've been working on into the ungodly hours of the night?"

"Maybe someday." Jack smiled mysteriously and disappeared once again into his room.

David was not staring at his fine ass as he retreated. He wasn't.

...

"Davey, do you got any food?"

David was regretting getting a roommate but also enjoyed having someone around. He didn't appreciate having to buy random shit every other week because Jack had a craving and pretty much no money. (He spent his money on rent and art supplies, which David didn't mind because his apartment was cheaper and Jack's art was amazing.)

"We have fruit snacks and spaghetti-o's if that qualifies as food. We might also have a banana."

Jack strolled into the kitchen area after David's previous statement and pulled out a packet of fruit snacks, a can of spaghetti-o's, and the blender.

"What the fuck are you doing?" David asked, shocked and amused all at once.

"I'm making me some dinner, you want some?"

"Jack, there is no way in Hell you are going to eat- drink spaghetti-o's and fruit snacks put through the blender. It's gonna be terrible."

"Actually, no it isn't. My old friend dared me to do it and it actually tastes good."

David had a brief memory flash through his mind.

"Francis! I dare you to put the two most different things you can think of in the blender and then drink it." Race shouted.

"Okay, I'll do it." Francis smiled that daredevil smile of hers and got started. Spaghetti-o's and fruit snacks.

When it was complete, Francis took a long drink.

"Wow. That's actually not terrible."

"Davey, you good?"

David nodded. "Sorry, just. You just reminded me of something."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Ex-girlfriend."

"Thought you said you're gay?"

"She kind of helped me out on discovering that."

"Well. That's nice of her. How so?"

"Uh. It's a long story."

"I bet I can handle it. Besides, I have an abomination to drink. I'll listen."

"Oh. Okay. Well. Basically, she decided she was going to Santa Fe and wasn't going to, you know, say goodbye to me or anyone. And I spent a long time angry and then realized I didn't really miss her romantically at all and just was pissed, and then me and my friend Albert accidentally fucked when we were drunk and I was like 'wow that's allowed?' and anyways uh Al and I aren't and weren't interested in each other at all, we were just drunk like I said, but then it all made sense why I wasn't like, sad over the 'love of my life' leaving because it was just a high school girlfriend and I'm not even into girls. So I'm not even mad at her anymore really I'm just gay and confused and I've talked a lot now sorry."

David looked up at Jack for a reaction. He was wearing this face... David could not name the emotion.

"What was her name?"

Huh. Weird question.

"Why?"

"Well, I was just wonderin' if maybe I met her, since I's come here from Santa Fe and all."

"Oh. Yeah, uh. Her name's Francis Sullivan."

"Have a picture?"

"Yeah, one sec." David scrolled through his phone's camera roll until he found her. "Here."

The picture made Jack frown, and David kind of would have done anything to make him smile again.

"You know her?" David asked.

"Yeah, uh. I knew her."

David's heart sped up.

"Really? Is she doing okay? Is she alright? Do you know where she lives, cause I might need to go-"

"Davey. Stop."

"What?"

"You can't exactly go visit her."

"Why not?"

Jack seemed to be looking inside himself instead of at David when he spoke.

"She was... the real depressed type, Dave. Always sad. She never smiled, I don't think. She was in a real bad state of mind."

"What're you-"

"She ain't alive no more."

Everything stopped in David's head.

"What?"

"I'm real sorry, Dave. She just ain't... But I'm here."

"What's that supposed to mean? 'You're here?'"

Jack hesitated before opening his mouth. "She didn't exactly... die the way you're thinking. She, uh. She just... more... changed? She ain't Francis anymore. She cut her hair and went on T and got top surgery and goes by a boy's name now, and he/him. So, uh, tellin' ya she died was probably not the brightest idea but that was an in-the-moment decision."

"Good for him. What does that have to do with you being here?"

Jack made absolute eye contact with David, wondering how he could be so fucking stupid, and held it. Held it as he crossed the room and held it up until the moment he pulled David into a hug.

"I'm sorry for leavin' you. I just had ta get away."

David jerked away from Jack in a quick movement.

"You? You're... You- I can't-" David's brain was moving too quickly and all he could think to do was punch Jack in the face as hard as humanly possible.

Which he did.

"Son of a bitch- Dave! I only told ya cause I thought you said ya weren't mad anymore!"

"Yeah, well. Now I am, asshole. You... You deep friend burnt-ass dino nugget dickhead. You absolute.... I can't even. How dare you? I fucking loved you, yes even if I'm gay now, and you, you just ran the fuck off and never bothered contacting me for six years. I would have understood if you needed to leave, needed to leave me, needed... whatever. I would have given you your space. I hate you."

Jack looked hurt. It made David feel good. All that pain he went through and it was being passed on.

"Davey-"

"David."

"Right, sorry. David. I'm really sorry. I don't- I never meant ta hurt you. To be honest, I thought you'd be glad if I left and never came back."

David felt less good.

"I just- I wanted to feel like I could be free. It didn't really... go as planned. Because I just realized I wanted to come back. Mostly for you."

David didn't stop to think. David just kissed Jack like he was hungry for it.

"I fucking hate you." He said, pulling away.

"No you don't."

"Don't test your luck."

A small moment of touching silence passed.

"So..." Jack started. "You slept with Al?"

"Now I actually do hate you. Get out, I'm calling him. Maybe he'll be nice to me."

"Davey... I love you. I always did."

"I'm... good to know. I can't- I'm still mad, bitch."

Jack just laughed, and he knew right then that it would all be fine.

A/N: hope y'all liked it :) It'll be on ao3 asap

#newsies #javey #fanfic #newsies fanfic #javey fanfic #I think its amazing #uhh has some cussing #but some bomb-ass insults #newsies live #trans Jack kelly

40 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 year

Note

AITA for complaining about my coworker to other coworkers?

I (F24) work in a mom & pop shop with a girl we'll call Kelly (F30). Kelly and I get along alright, but disagree on a lot of little things. Like the best way to carry stock out to the shelves (I use a utility cart she does it by hand and it takes forever), the order in which things should be cleaned (she wants to sweep and mop the floors first and then dust the shelves off onto the clean floor), stuff like that. Inconsequential, but kind of annoying. I've complained about the way she does things to my fellow coworkers and they'll usually respond "Haha that sucks but what can you do?" and we both go about our days.

Kelly recently blew up at me because our manager mentioned I've been complaining about her. I told her yeah I have, but you KNOW we argue about the little things sometimes. Like girl, I'm saying you're a slow shelf stocker, not a bad person. She told me I should know better than to "drag someone's name through the mud" because that's what someone did to me in a past relationship.

For context I was with my ex (M22) for 2 and a half years and left him because he was intentionally trying to make me the bad guy to all our friends and family. For example: one time we went out with friends and he spent the whole night flirting with my friends. I didn't say anything but waited until we got home to tell him I was uncomfortable with the way he acted, and he texted all my friends he "wasn't allowed to talk to them anymore because I'm insecure". Or the time his mom was in the hospital and we went to visit her, and I was talking to her and he was playing on his phone. At one point she had to use the bathroom so I helped her stand up and walk in there. I quietly told him maybe he should be more attentive to his mom when she got back out, and he left the hospital without saying a word and later texted his mom that he's sorry he had to leave her because I "wouldn't stop bitching at him."

So, yeah. I didn't like Kelly comparing me saying she's a slow shelf stocker to what my ex used to do to me. I told her she was way out of line for that, and the two weren't comparable at all. I'm not lying about things she's said or done, or trying to make people think she's a bad or abusive person. I'm a worker complaining about things that make my work harder, and sometimes those things are her behavior.

I don't THINK I'm in the wrong here, but obviously I could be wrong and am open to outside perspectives. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

81 notes · View notes

bisupergirl · 2 months

Note

oh sorry, also are there any comics i should avoid completely because the gp recognises them as being completely ooc or just not a sensical comic for supergirl?

and i was thinking of collecting the series of graphic novels that start with supergirl vol 1 - reign of the cyborg supermen. is that a good comic run? i have no clue when it comes to kara haha.

also, one last thing i promise! what is kara's true personality? like as kara danvers but also as supergirl. do they contrast each other? is she a geek or is she still just as powerful but in different ways when she's kara not sg? if that makes sense

again im so sorry for all the questions, kara is a character that really intruiges me and i really want to know the canon version of her. (unfortunately i loved the cw version of her, no matter what any one says) but i know that's nkt exactly correct.

im so sorry if ive bothered you, and i will be eternally greatful if you manage to answer my questions. thank you so much!

YES THERE ARE. Anything you see written by either Jeph Loeb or Joe Kelly should be avoided at all costs. This includes Superman/Batman (2003) #8-13 and Supergirl (2005) #0-19. Basically anything written between the years 2004 through 2007 should be avoided like the plague. The early 2000s was truly an evil era for Kara... she was oversexualized to hell and back and really didn't have any sort of characterization beyond "sexy teenager". The only thing that I think is somewhat worth reading from those years is Supergirl and the Legion of Super-Heroes (2004) #16-36, but even that isn't super necessary if you don't want to slog through it just for her.

Aside from that.... this is just my controversial opinion, but I REALLY dislike everything Mariko Tamaki has written for Kara. This includes Supergirl: Being Super (2017) and the Supergirl Special (2023). I've just found that she has a very boring and uninspired take on Kara... Nothing she's written gives off the vibe that she's actually read any of Kara's comics. Being Super specifically irks me because it's literally just "what if Kara... was Clark!", and that's just not remotely interesting to me... Obviously nothing she's written is on par with the truly heinous shit that Loeb and Kelly were doing with Kara, so I don't want it to seem like I'm putting them on the same level! A lot of people DO like her Supergirl comics, I'm just not one of them.

Steve Orlando's run of Supergirl (2016)—which includes Reign of the Cyborg Supermen—was written specifically to appeal to fans of the CW show, so I imagine that if you like CW Supergirl, you'll also probably like that comic. I don't necessarily want to say that you shouldn't read it (since you like CWSG), but it's not something I recommend since the way that Kara's characterized there is quite different than any other comic version of her—past or present. If you do want to read something from Supergirl (2016) I recommend Marc Andreyko's run! It's spans from #21 to #36 (although I don't suggest reading past #33) and is collected in Supergirl vol. 1: Killers of Krypton and Supergirl vol. 2: Sins of the Circle.

As for her personality:

Kara is very headstrong and stubborn—she doesn't back down from her beliefs even if it means coming into conflict with her authority figures (like Clark, her mother, her employers, etc.).

She's also incredibly compassionate and protective—even in her early days as Supergirl when humans would reject her, she wasn't directly scornful of them and she'd still go out of her way to use her powers to keep them safe.

Relating to that, she's also very empathetic—there's been multiple storylines where Kara sees herself and her experience in the person she's helping, and it inspires her to do whatever she can to help them.

She's often driven by her anger and devastation of what happened to Krypton. The fury and nearly inconsolable despair that she feels for the mass death that was caused by Krypton's destruction is such a huge driving force for everything she does.

In regards to her interests: they change pretty frequently between continuities, but Pre and Post Crisis Kara was depicted as being very artistic in a lot of different areas! Kara used to have a passion for acting: she went to drama school, starred in two films, and went on to star in a soap opera. She was also very into fashion and used to wear so many cute outfits :'). Additionally, in Post Crisis continuity, she was a painter and even contemplated joining the Art Guild on New Krypton just like her father did. Recently she hasn't been shown to be that artistic and instead has an interest in history (Kryptonian history, that is). Before Krypton's destruction she was invited to study at the Society of Historical Science, and she actually preferred history to applied science. She does have a lot of scientific understanding (both because she's apart of the House of El and because Krypton is so scientifically advanced), but I've always loved that she's shown a consistent interest in the humanities rather than science!

As a quick aside, Kara has had a couple different human identities over the years: she was Linda Lee Danvers (sometimes just referred to as Linda Danvers) during Pre Crisis continuity, and that was her most fleshed out and meaningful identity imo since it lasted for around 26 years. During Post Crisis she briefly went by Linda Lang, and then in the Rebirth continuity she'd go by Kara Danvers to match the CW show. All that to say, she really doesn't differ that much in personality when she's in her human identity than when she's Supergirl! Aside from pretending that she doesn't have powers, she's still just as incredibly headstrong and compassionate and protective when she's [insert human ID here] as she is when she's Supergirl.

Okay now I'm just going to drop a few reading guides / comic recommendations that I've made here if you're interested!

Ultimate Supergirl Reading Guide Supergirl Storyline Recommendations Pre Crisis Supergirl Recommendations

#asks #kara zor el #i already said this in my last answer but i promise asking me about supergirl doesn't bother me at all!#i love yapping about her <3

19 notes · View notes

hamiltonfilms · 2 years

Note

Can we get Max x MotoGP part 2? Where she meets someone new and shes glowing and getting on the podiums?

And leave this fucked up place behind

part 1 - "Used to stick together"

Pairing: Max Verstappen x female!reader, lewis hamilton x female!reader

Summary: after cheating and breaking up with max you start to get over it love yourself again and finally meet someone who lets you be yourself

Warnings: alcohol, cigarettes, loving yourself again, partying,

a/n: so I like it and thank you for your request and I look forward to more requests haha, English is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes

photo credits: Pinterest

yourusername added to their story

yourusername

liked by charlottesiine, lewishamilton,redbullmotorsports, and others

yourusername summer break and the beginning of the season vibe

view all 1008 comments

charlottesiine love your aesthetic now girl

yourusername it's not a new aesthetic, I just started taking care of myself Chéri

incidentguy who is the mystery man?

y/nlovverr y/n in her 'it girl' era

liked by yourusername

yourusername added to their story

kellypiquet aded to their story

yourusername added to their story

Paris fashion week 2023

Seeing Max and Kelly together for fashion week broke my heart completely. Have I come to terms with the loss, not so much? My love for Max has always known no bounds. We broke up after ten years. Yes, after 10 fucking years. But honestly, it's probably even fun. For these ten years, I have always been in Max's shadow, even though I am in motorsport myself, fans and others have always seen him. Unlike Lewis, whom I have known since childhood. Lewis was about 4 years older than me but he always treated me better than Max. Suddenly someone snapped me out of my trance.

"I wouldn't have expected you here! Y/n it's good to see you" I'd recognize that voice anywhere "Not that I haven't been coming here since I was little! Nice to finally see you Lewis" The sarcasm in my voice was audible to everyone.

We were sitting next to each other, but when I saw who would be sitting next to us, I was terrified. Seeing Max and Kelly cuddling like us just made my heart ache. As I sat down I saw that they were looking at me with surprised eyes I smiled softly and said 'hey'. Fortunately, everything passed quickly and I was hoping that tomorrow I would get another place and if not, I would ask someone to change it. Lewis apologized to me because he had gone with someone to say goodbye and I found that I would quickly escape from there and back to the hotel. Suddenly Kelly started talking to me, I had no problem with her, on the contrary, I used to love her a lot now, but somehow we don't talk too much. Even when I was younger, I had a crush on her. However, our conversation didn't last long because I was a bit tired so I said goodbye to who I had and went to the exit. As I was near the exit door, someone grabbed my arm. When I turned around, I saw that it was Max.

' We need to talk' he gripped my arm tighter. 'we don't have to and you know what I don't even feel like it right now '

"Please give me 5 minutes and let's talk" his expression wasn't very nice "five minutes and seconds no more"

'Thank you! What do you think you'll come here, you'll be nice!' his tone of voice suddenly jumped up which made me flinch 'Listen Max because you're acting like the center of the world after these 10 years I've learned to live in your shadow alley I'm done with it. I'm happy at last and I want it to stay that way"

'you won't find anyone better than me' I took a step further but his tone was getting higher and higher 'anyone who doesn't cheat on me a hundred times will always be better

' 'you little whore, listen to me-' I shuddered again but someone interrupted him 'you must be doing something wrong, buddy, you don't call women that way '

'Y/n are you okay?' that soft lewis voice made me cry. 'Shh, let's go somewhere quiet. Don't be afraid of me sweetheart'

I couldn't calm down, maybe Max was right, I won't find anyone better in my life. Too many negative thoughts ran through my mind. I was sitting in the passenger seat and Lewis tried to calm me down. He stopped at a small shop and went inside. He quickly left with some cheap French wine and quickly left without speaking and just smiling. He stopped at the Eiffel Tower and got out, and so did I. We sat on the ground.

"you know he didn't deserve you he was always just an asshole so secretly I never liked him" a small giggle escaped my lips "you know I don't deserve you"

"Not true! You are unique and will remain so forever."

Lewis opened the wine and drank from Gwent handed me the bottle so I did the same. We started joking and reminiscing about old times and mocking my French accent when I turned 4 and moved to the UK with my mum. I don't know how this time will pass but it was already somewhere after 4 and the sun was slowly starting to dawn so we decided that we would start to gather. He drove me to the apartment I was renting for the duration of my stay in Paris. We were right at the door when I opened it.

"Are you coming in a minute or are you in a hurry?" he just smiled and walked in

He started looking around, and by then I had managed to put the rest of the wine in the fridge.

"what is it? Do I look bad?" just smile "you look like a walking angel"

I felt my cheeks turn red. But he kept staring. I quickly ignored it and went to take off my makeup and change into something more comfortable. I came out of the bathroom and he looked at me

"What?" I said confused. "Red Bull everywhere. would be better in a Mercedes t-shirt, baby"

Maybe if I wasn't driving for Red Bull I would have agreed, but for as long as I can remember he's been at Mercedes and I've been at Red Bull and he's biting me. But it was always fun for him and me, our inside joke. A lot of people thought we were something of a couple, but to him, I'll probably always be like a little sister. We sat on the couch and watched French TV, looking at Lewis' face, he didn't quite understand what was going on. My heart began to sway as Lewis puts his arm around me and laughs at the looney tunes that were on the TV, but I often saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. My eyes started to slowly close, I felt safe, I don't even know why. I leaned my head against his chest and started to fall asleep, he started stroking my head which caused butterflies in my stomach. I won't lie that I've always had a crush on him, but I tried to ignore that feeling, but it didn't always work out. I didn't want to ruin our relationship because he treated me like a little sister. I don't know when and how but my phone rang, it was 11 noon God I slept for a while. Next to me he slept sitting up on the couch like me lewis. So it wasn't a dream. It was a pity to wake him up so I quickly turned off the wake up call calmly broke free from the hug got dressed and went for a run because I had to ventilate my mind to think clearly. On the way, I stopped at a cafe for something for breakfast and coffee because there was nothing in the fridge. I came back an hour later and he was still asleep. I didn't have the heart to wake him up, so I tried to be as quiet as possible, but she saw him get up.

"Coffee or breakfast?" I asked in a voice loud enough for him to hear me "you don't even know how much I need this"

All I did was smile and hand him a cup of coffee and a waffle. He looked like a small child enjoying his favorite food. I felt warmth in my heart.

"Y/n we need to talk about something" I don't even know how stressed I was I just hid it under a smile "What's the problem?"

"Because that's the thing. Y/n I've just been in love with you since I can remember and I know it's a shit time cause you just broke up with Max but know that I love you if you don't then I completely understand and let's forget it" I felt that moment was not real and probably just a dream but I always dreamed about it and now I don't know how to act "Lewis because I love you too forever but I was afraid to make a move because I was afraid for our awesome friendship"

"We're both fucked up now will you make this magical moment and be my girlfriend" all I could do was cry and a hesitant "yes" came out of my mouth

"I changed our seats anyway and we won't be sitting next to Max and Kelly baby" I hugged him and felt more tears in my eyes "thank you so much"

He just smiled and went back to eating his breakfast. I went to collect it because there was little time left. Lewis went to the hotel to get himself together and he was supposed to pick me up and he did. Time passed quickly and we were already waiting for a place to sit, but we didn't have to wait long. Luckily Max was out of my sight and I was able to enjoy the show.

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, charlottesiine, pierregasly and 26,522 others

yourusername You haven't seen my man 🧡

view all 31k comments

charlottesiine girl 😳

yourusername Well, a lot has changed for me

y/nhateclub she's so annoying, yet she found another one to be popular again

inchidentguy y/n and who? Sir Lewis Hamilton?

leclerc16lover I don't think so but we can manifest

yukiswheelsss she said soft launch

yourusername added to their story

tagged: heidiberger_

lewishamilton

liked by mercedesamgf1, charles_leclerc, susie_wolff and others

tagged yourusername

lewishamilton "I mixed a lot of love with a lot of drugs, then I found you."

view all 6.282 comments

yourusername you idiot, that was supposed to be a soft launch, not a fucking hard launch

lewishamilton I love you too sweetheart

susie_wolff you both look lovely, welcome to the family y/n 🧡

^liked by lewishamilton and yourusername

y/nhateclub 🤮🤮🤮

formulalewis they fit together so well

redbullmotorsports

liked by charlottesiine, lewishamilton,maxverstappen1, and others

tagged yourusername, motogp

redbullmotorsports the real RBR monster just wake up

see all comments

yourusername 'Cause I'm a fucking legend

leclerc16lover also wants to have an era of rematch and self-love after a breakup like y/n

charlottesiine mon chéri toujours au top

^liked by yourusername

yukiswheelsss our fav female driver

lewishamilton 💙

yourusername

portugal

liked by f1wags, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and others

tagged: lewishamilton, charlottesiine, redbullmotorsports

yourusername another day another slay

see all comments

charlottesiine always supports you, baby 💗

liked by yourusername

stargirllover shes in her taylor swift era

paddockgf she posting pictures of lewis 🥺💙

formulalewis they are so cute

yourusername added to their story

lewishamilton added to their story

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, f1wags and others

yourusername Family holidays

comments on this post are limited

lewishamilton you're glowing darling

yourusername not as you

danielricciardo I'm telling you from Heidi that you look beautiful

yourusername tell her I'm not as beautiful as she is

>>>>>>>>>>>>

a/n: I hope you like it because I tried haha and I'm waiting for more requests

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #lewis hamilton instagram au #instagram au #fake instagram #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #hamiltonfilms

363 notes · View notes

collectivecloseness · 10 months

Note

Robin Buckley from st and 9 please

Okay but Bejewelled by Taylor Swift is such a sweet one for Robin haha 💖

(Cw: set in 80s so tiniest mention about society not being super open minded but that’s it, it’s v fluffy)

Robin Buckley x reader

Your girlfriend Robin had had a pretty lousy day yesterday.

She came home nearly screaming, grunting long and hard as she threw her face into your chest as she (just successfully) landed on the sofa and your lap. When you stroked through her blonde hair to ask her what was wrong, she told you about this girl Kelly from her old high school who came to Robin at work and asked her out.

You were a little stunned, blinking and giving a small “Wow” as you kept petting your love’s hair. Robin at least turned her face up from your boobs, glaring up at you with that sharp eyeliner around those shiny blue eyes. Groaning “Uh huh!!” In exasperated agreement.

You were shocked Kelly had even been so blunt to ask, knowing what the townsfolk around here are like, but you lightly massaged Robin’s scalp as you let her explain, vivid hand gestures clanging her bracelets around, and all.

“Steve didn’t know whether to go to the store room, or stay and back me up, but like, I didn’t even know Kelly was gay! And she was always so mean in high school, I didn’t know if she was trying to out me or something.” Robin explained, cut off from her ramblings as she looked up to your huff in suspense at the small noise, cutting off her train of thoughts.

“Oh baby, I’m sorry.” You frown a little, stroking her freckled cheek with the back of your hand where you held her.

Robin just made some vague waving hand gesture, quickly moving on to keep up with what she wanted to tell you. “So yeah I said something like ‘Uhhh... no thanks! Sorry, no, I mean, I won’t tell anyone of fucking course’, goddamn!” Robin sighed annoyed “‘But yeah, sorry, not for me-‘ you know polite crap like that.” Robin looked up at you nodding, and you of course nodded back in solidarity.

“You’re very polite babe.” You sort of half lied, confidently though.

“Yeah! Exactly! But then she went all... mad! And started asking me ‘Ugh, what’s your damage?!’ And saying that I wasn’t hot anyway and she had plenty of dates lined up anyway!” Robin rolled her hands in the air, wafting near your face. “But then, like, why ask me out at all? Asshole! She clearly couldn’t handle me.”

Robin looks up to you, serious eyes from where she lays in your lap. And you can’t lie, sometimes you find the side of Robin that can be confident, mean, sarcastic, that side of her, pretty hot. And with her tone and her expressions right now, she was definitely hitting that part of her personality.

“She wanted you babe.” You nod seriously, and Robin’s blue eyes widen, some pink flushing beneath her freckles as she leans up so fast you have to swerve your head back, now sitting on your lap as she slaps her hands down to her knees, tucking them up with her. “That’s what I’m saying! Plus I wasn’t sure if she actually meant it or not, I mean she was never exactly ‘nice’ to me before.” Robin makes air quotes with her ringed fingers. “And then she turns around and says I’m ugly anyways even though she came to my work to try and pick me up!” Robin scoffs loudly.

And what your girlfriend is saying actually distracts you from the fact that just as much Robin can’t sit in a chair properly, she doesn’t really do the same in your lap either.

“Wait, she called you ugly?” You ask, a big expression of disgust turning on your face now, your hand going straight for the side of Robin’s chest where you can hold her, as it’s your turn to scoff. “Wow, you must’ve really demolished her self esteem Robin babe. I mean, to be fair, who can survive being turned down by you?” You exhale incredulously, pissed off someone would say that to Robin, even though you both knew they were just deflecting, but deciding to turn it around so the both of you could continue slating this complete loser, which is clearly the vibe that was happening right now.

“Right!” Robin throws her hands up one more time, before sighing, and turning her attention to cupping and stroking your face between her long fingers and sharp nails. “Well at least I never had to do that to you.” She smiles, finally feeling as vindicated as she knew she would be, coming home to complain with you.

And you let Robin pull you in for a kiss, that you more than happily joined in with. You let her be her more dom self as you carried her up to your room too. Although you knew Robin wasn’t done. Even if it wasn’t for her staring up at the ceiling in bed, and also stroking her hands kind of evilly.

Robin had a plan in mind. And she was more than happy to wake you up just as you dozed off on her chest, to ask you if you knew if Eddie and Nancy were free tomorrow night also.

One of the first things she did after smacking loads of kisses on your face until you were awake, and after the moment she said hello to you, was running with a blanket wrapped around her into the hallway; just as you’d woken up enough to be about to roll over, and cuddle her.

But it was easy to tell when your girlfriend was on a mission. You hear her saying “Steve! Listen!” But that’s about it, and you’re not surprised she woke him up too, at least it made sense where she was running off to.

You had an idea why she was eager to go talk to Steve, but Robin all but confirmed it for you when she came back, and told you she has a plan.

“That’s great babe.” You said right into the pillow you were face down in, with a pointed thumbs up, literally about to fall asleep again.

But then, Robin’s slender hands were running up your bare shoulder blades that the quilt just wasn’t covering. And you were smiling even before you opened your eyes, as you turned your head so your cheek was laying on the pillow instead, to see Robin standing above you. A different kind of devious smirk on her face and sparkle in her eyes.

Robin had said for you to hang out with Eddie and Nancy maybe, just to have some fun today! Because she needed to go out after lunch to meet up with Steve.

You kissed her goodbye after sharing a salad bowl together, and smacked a kiss onto your hand before slapping that on Steve’s temple, as he waved at you from the drivers seat, besides where your girlfriend was getting in.

“Thanks.” Steve gave you, eyes crinkled from the sun, and your sudden hand on his face, looking up at you, before you said bye to them both and waved them off.

Robin had told you before she left that ‘you’re all going out tonight’, having sounded very convincing on the phone to both Nancy and Eddie, as they also knew what side of Robin’s personality was shining today.

You were all meeting up at Steve’s house, which was the designated hang out zone, and luckily you all had keys, so you let yourself in pretty early in the day. Nancy had spent the past hour and a half with you in Steve’s home, and Eddie have arrived about twenty minutes later, all of you waiting for Robin, and Steve, as you played some Uno while waiting.

You all turned your heads up, different sounding “Hey!”’s from all three of you, when you heard the door finally open and shut. But you could barely spot a flash of your girlfriend, Steve right behind, and seemingly being dragged by Robin by the hand, as they both rushed up the bannister.

“Sorry babe, guys! We’ll be down later! Keep hanging out!” Robin encouraged you all. And even though you and Nancy shared a look of intrigue, Eddie already helping himself to more of the popcorn you’d brought out a while ago, you heard Steve’s bedroom door slam. And with a shrug, decided to leave Robin and Steve to it, they’d come down when they were finished. ...With, whatever it is they were doing.

You hadn’t even noticed that well over half an hour had gone by, until Robin was calling you from the stairs.

“Are you guys ready?”

You, Nancy and Eddie quickly got up, you sending her and Steve a “Yeah!” As you three stood up in the living room, waiting on in intrigue, until Robin and Steve finally walked through the door.

Robin walked down in a drop dead sparkly dress, glittery and her colour, with beautiful eye make up, and her shiny lips smiling open mouthed in anticipation at you, and all her friends. Steve was in a matching sparkly jacket too, that he’d been ‘persuaded’ to wear by Robin. With a long shirt tucked mostly beneath his going out pants, Steve could make anything look good you swore it was a superpower. But your girlfriend... your jaw dropped to the floor, in a wowed and breathless laugh.

When she walked in the room, the whole place lit up. Reflections of her dress by the lamp illuminating the room, and a bright beam on her face, causing the whole room to shimmer and glow, or maybe you just truly felt that, looking at how happy and stunning your girlfriend Robin was right now.

“Woah!” Eddie breaks the silence first, clapping his hands together once as he takes in the pair. While behind you Nancy gives an “Oh my God.” As you’re already on your way, running up to Robin.

“Wow babe.” You admire.

Robin opens her arms up, with a bright grin on her beautiful face. “Baby love.” She calls you, as you wrap your arms around her back, her own hands cuddling your arms in your hug.

Your hands run up her bare shoulder blades - that feel really silky smooth right now, wow - as you hug her close. Pulling your head back to look her up and down, admiring every little detail Robin poured into herself. “Wow... you look beautiful Robin.”

Robin bounces in her flats, rubbing your own biceps a bit - you’re sure she must’ve put some cream or powder on her hands too because they are just, so soft - before she leans in, to peck a small kiss to your cheek. And you can feel the sticky lip gloss leaving a small mark there too. “Thanks my love.” She smiles, still bouncing eagerly.

You hear Steve laugh at something Nancy says, seeing her pinch the fabric of his sparkly jacket between her fingers, both giggling. Eddie paying attention too, nodding approvingly at Steve. “Yeah, you polish up real nice Harrington.”

Which is met with a response of “Shut up.” By Steve who bitch flicks Eddie’s hand away from where he is, admittedly, prodding at him. But Steve smiling all the same, and it makes you smile too, even though he’s not looking at you.

You love to see him so happy helping Robin out, that’s he’s genuinely not upset at her taking his day away to get him all dressed up to match with her in a big sparkly outfit for her plan, or to have his friends staring and poking at him for it, any of the sort. He’s not complaining about the outfit, in fact no ones making fun of any of them, and to be fair, they’re styled so well they actually look amazing. But you do sincerely love, that Steve is your girlfriends best friend. You couldn’t imagine anyone better for that role for the love of your life. And you’re glad Steve has Robin too.

Steve noticed you smiling at him then, turning to face you. And as you caught his brown eyes, your smile only warmed. And Steve, the true friend he was to you as well, kept smiling back all the way.

Nancy comes to give Robin a quick hug, both holding each other’s elbows as she asks about what stores Robin has been to all day, when Eddie came over and pat Robin’s shoulder too, and she turned up to smile at her friend.

“That actually suits you too Buckley. And when you made your grand dramatic entrance, with all the lights and shit,” Eddie waves his hand in the air “you aura was totally moonstone... or like, diamond, or... shit which one of them is really sparkly?”

Robin just snorts, looking up at Eddie with a hand to her mouth. And Steve has that mom look on his face again, the one where if Robin saw it, she’d definitely laugh harder.

“Did you smoke before coming here?” Steve does the gesture to his lips, asking Eddie.

Nancy popping in, telling Steve and Robin “He says he had an edible maybe two hours ago? I don’t think he’s exactly down yet. At least because we all know Eddie’s stuff works pretty well.”

Eddie just beams, full teeth, straight at Robin and Steve, with his hands proudly behind his back, rolling on the balls of his feet.

You roll your eyes, smiling at your friend, but turning to Robin. Holding both her hands outstretched in each of your own, your thumbs rubbing softly across the knuckles of her cool fingers. “I declined.” You inform her.

Robin gets that big, put on ‘that’s surprising, in a delightful way’ sort of look on her face, as she tilts it at you. “Wow. Oh my God, you didn’t accept Eddie’s free weed this time?”

You shrug, still swinging your hands between both your bodies. “I knew it was gonna be your special night!” Is all you needed to respond with.

And God, if Robin doesn’t love you so much...

She gently grasps your hands as she leans over, pecking your lips solidly, and smiling at you the entire time she leans backwards. “Thank you my diamond.” She calls you, and you tilt your head with a smile at the new nickname. But when she turns to face Eddie after those words, with her raised brows and a knowing look on her face, it all makes sense.

You giggle, getting her attention swiftly back, and her blue eyes only twinkle more as you raise her luxuriously soft hands up with your own, and kiss over the backs of both of them.

“Mmh!” You can’t contain your excitement for Robin. Letting go of one of her hands and raising the other, twirling her grinning when she squeals and whoops with the movement. Making sure you focus on catching her in your arms because you know Robin’s not the most balanced when she’s wearing her usual sneakers, never mind flats.

With her in your arms, you just want to playfully growl and happily kiss all up her neck, burying your nose in there to kiss fast and lots, but you know the others around may not be quite as appreciative as Robin would be. So you settle for planting a sweet kiss to her jaw, lifting her back up straight, but still holding her in your arms, as you ask what you’ve been wanting to all day.

“So? What is the plan? Why are you and Steve all dressed up? I’ve been dying to know.” You hold onto her hand and wrists, Robin leaning in close to you, and you definitely notice her eyes not peering anywhere but your lips as she smiles. Even as Eddie and Nancy ask the same as you.

Eventually Robin looks up, seeing Steve was waiting for her to explain as the floor was hers, if she wanted it, and Robin stood up straight, rather than leaning into you, although she still kept you holding her.

“We’re going to the club tonight. Brava. The one where Eddie can get us in because he helped them fix their sound one time-“

Eddie bows, so lucky accidentally walking past and knowing *something* about speakers actually gave him and his friends a free pass to one of the better clubs in Hawkins.

“And it’s the one where Kelly works at.” Robin looks pointedly at you, and you slowly nod as you begin to get it. Steve’s nodding along too, clearly the first privy to Robin’s master plan.

“We are going to turn up there, looking stunning. We’re all going to dance, a full group of friends, we’re going to drink and have fun. And I’m going to be able to show you off.” Robin points her nose out close to you, her face adoring and admiring, and twinkling with delight at her scheme.

You smirked. Some people may be glad Robin wasn’t going there just to, maybe, show herself off to Kelly, as if to say ‘see I’m hot’, but you very much want to go to the club and praise that fact. I mean, you’d love being able to show everyone how smoking hot your girlfriend is, whenever the chance arises.

Robin smiles at your in on the plan expression. And she turns to everyone else, giving a coy shrug. “If she’s going to show up at my work and cause a scene, then I’m going to let her know what it feels like. Except I’m just going out and having fun with my friends and girlfriend.”

You squeezed Robin’s hip in approval. Kelly doing all that at Robin’s work was out of line. Plus, she was lucky it was only Steve around to hear, as you knew Robin was already out to him, not like Kelly would have. It’s nice to see that side of Robin coming out to kick ass, and go girlboss mode, as she rightfully should.

Nancy and Eddie eagerly agree with the plan, happy them all having a good night out and getting vengeance on behalf of their friend can be done at the exact same time.

“I wanna really dance with you there!” Robin says facing you. Your heart pumping as Robin brings her hands to the side of your chest. Rolling her palms along your skin and muscle, as her fingers slither to your spine. Catching yourself opening your mouth halfway, as if you let Robin in to kiss you. And you have to admit, a certain throb ran through your thighs when you saw a smirk just light up on her face, as her eyes found your lips, and you knew she’d realised what had just happened.

But, extremely unfortunately for you, Robin couldn’t grant you what you wanted because Steve who’d completely missed those subtle movements was wrapping his arm around Robin, and giving a big speech to Eddie, Nancy, and also you, about how wrong this girl was and how they all have to go out and defend their friend. Robin smiles and hugs into Steve’s side as he went on passionately, sticking up for her even in a room full of people who love her. And you absolutely just have to love Steve, no matter if he interrupted a kiss or not, there was no way you could care about his himboness traits coming into affect around his lesbian best friend.

Eddie cheers along with Steve’s little speech, and you and Nancy cry along too with approval. Steve bouncing happily on his feet at doing so well for getting his point across for Robin, and he looked down at her still underneath his arm, and with the way she was grinning, Steve felt proud for not only helping her get through a pretty crappy time, but really making it wonderful for her.

Although Steve did mention how he and Robin had been sharing a bottle of champagne upstairs while they were getting ready, and probably mostly talking and talking and talking, as per usual, due to how long they took. You presumed he got it from his parents cabinet, although you were slightly surprised to learn this because you just thought Robin and Steve were happy, because those two were usually the ones to get drunk first, if they were drinking together. Maybe they were slightly tipsy. You did want some of the champagne though if they hadn’t finished it off.

“You guys pre’d without us?” You ask, faux offended.

Robin extended her arm out at you. “You guys could’ve been drinking all evening if you wanted! Steve still had to drive us back.”

Eddie mentions something about how he should’ve brought booze and weed tonight, to which Nancy just shakes her head, at least with a smile, at him. Causing Eddie to smile back.

But you ask Robin and Steve for some champagne, and they both nod. No one here cares about swigging from the same bottle as each other. You’re well passed that.

“We’re definitely drinking tonight, especially with Eddie’s free pass for us all at Brava.” Robin points out, and she wraps her arm over your shoulders. “I’m tired of being a good girl right now. I feel like I’ve been doing that for at least a month.” Robin moans. “We’re going out to the club, we’re all drinking, and when we get back I am really dancing with you. And maybe if no one’s passed out we can see about Eddie’s thing.”

Steve and Nancy fake groan at Robin’s suggestive nature of how she’d be dancing with you when it would just literally be them in a room together, but Eddie’s too busy fist pumping the air at being right about bringing edibles with him to the party just in case tonight.

“In fact, to not only show off our dazzlingness, but to all be on theme together, Steve and I have got you all matching sparkly outfits!” Robin finally reveals, and Steve laughs as he’s finally not having to hold that detail back anymore.

“Oh my God.”

“Holy shit!”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

You, Eddie, and Nancy all chorus, as Steve goes and brings three bags out from the hallway, you and your two surprised friends gasping and grasping onto each other, shocked but so eager to see what’s in store.

Nancy’s was simple, and had some glittery tights and sparkly jewellery, to go with the outfit Nancy had said she was bringing, as when Robin had called her she’d asked about the fashion code tonight and what everyone was wearing. And Robin already knew what outfit Nancy was bringing, knew what to buy to go along with the set.

Steve head actually been the first one to spot the sleeveless denim jacket, that had the shiny silver spikes on the shoulders. You were trying to tell if some other parts were rhinestones, or just other spikes, or silvery buttony parts, but Eddie was already too busy moving it all about as he admired and inspected it.

To be honest, you knew no matter what, and you thought so did Robin and Steve buying this piece, that Eddie would 100% be down for commitment to the bit, and that he didn’t care about standing out. Especially when not all of you would be standing out ‘shining’.

“And of course,” Robin turned to you, Steve did too. The excited looks on their faces making your heart pump. Your eyes swivelling from them, to Nancy and Eddie who were now fully paying attention to you too, and down to where Robin’s double ringed hand reached down into the bag. “I bought a dress for you.”

Your jaw drops, a smile still on there of course, and Robin’s big blue eyes are delighted up at you. “I also got you shoes as a present. I wanted your outfit all to match.”

Your cheeks are heating with every extra stretch of your wide smile, your hand darting out and gently landing on top of Robin’s wrist in the bag. “Ohhh no, sparkles or sequins are not super my thing.”

Steve was the first one to respond, placing his hand down behind your neck. “Yeah, well, tonight it is.” He just smiles.

Robin shoved whatever was in the bag back down, removing her hand, but when you catch her eyes, her shoulders lift up, and she grins at you very excitedly, lighting up like a kid on chirhsmas.

Robin grabs your hand, and drags you up to Steve’s room with an eager screech. And as you follow suit quickly, so you don’t fall, letting her pull you with her thrilled sounds, as Eddie and Steve bellow laughter from downstairs, you are pulled into Steve’s room, Robin closing the door to show you what she picked out, and let you get dressed.

You fawned and gasped, and ooh’d and ahh’d when Robin spread your dress out on Steve’s bed, already eager for you to try it and make sure it definitely fit.

You were definitely glad she at least got you a style she knew you wore. And as you ran your hands over the lush material, you turned to face your awaiting and encouraged girlfriend, who you didn’t realised had her face just inches from yours, happily anticipating.

Giggling, after your initial tiny flinch, you leaned those three inches in and kissed her lips. Robin allowing herself a small moment of calm, kissing them back sweetly and shortly as she looked to you.

“Thank you sweetheart. It’s really pretty. I’ll definitely wear this more than once. Even if I have to purposely find an occasion to do so.” You smiled, your heart bursting as Robin laughed with glee, so happy you liked it!

You really did! It was sparkly and pretty and the dress was very much in your style, Robin knew exactly what to get you that would match the group, and specifically match her intentionally too, but also was something you’d like, even if you wouldn’t have thought it before. Because Robin knew you, and your clothes, and your style so well by now.

The shoes were actually very comfy too, especially for a first time wearing them. You supposed if after a club night in new shoes the comfort factor went extremely down hill, you had at least three people out of the four who’d be able to carry you home, back to Steve’s. Honestly actually, you wouldn’t put it past Nancy to do so if it was life or death enough either.

You place your hands on Robin’s face, finally in the quiet of an alone room together, and you look deeply at your wonderful love. Robin matching your expression and looking back. Her hands tenderly coming up to rest on your forearms, her head leant into one palm as you kept holding her face. Robin’s eyes trailed to your lips, then back up to your eyes again, but her own were now hooded after a glance there.

You smoothed your thumbs over her cheeks, getting Robin to stop leaning in the second she was about to move another slow centimetre or two, and looking to you as you softly spoke, a loving smirk on your face. “You know, if we’re gonna complete your look, your eyeshadow needs to shine too.”

Robin’s eyes, surrounded by her smooth make up, shone in excitement, and you removed your hands to look in the bag you still have strapped over your shoulder, having been ready for her when Robin came downstairs with a camera in there, although getting caught up in the moment.

You whipped out a massive make up bag, with nearly all the make up you’d collected over the years, having a feeling you’d need it tonight with the hints you were able to pick up from Robin, whether she’d meant to give you all of them or not. Robin clasping her hands together and linking her fingers as she gasped happily down when you opened up the colourful bag.

Throwing it next to the bottle of champagne, courtesy of Steve, that you and Robin would be finishing up soon.

“Okay, get on the bed,” you ordered Robin “I don’t want the floor to ruin your pretty dress.”

To which Robin eagerly agreed, with a small closed mouthed scream. Lying flat down on Steve’s bed, you crawled slowly over her body. Sitting yourself down on top of her lap, your legs either side of hers. Before slowly leaning the top half of your body down. Your chest just about touching, with every little breath or movement around. Your eyes excited and with that cheeky love there that you both used to feel when you’d just be ‘being playful with each other’ when you both had a mutual crush. Flitting them all over Robin’s face, as you watched her eyes shimmer with the exact same look. Pink flushing hard underneath that pretty make up and those gorgeous freckles. Biting down on her bottom lip, a look you really couldn’t tear your eyes away from. As her hands came running up your thighs, to gently secure your hip, to hold you safe while on her.

Resting your hand caressing on Robin’s soft cheek, you can feel her eyelashes brush over your thumb, when she leans into your hand. Just as you apply more sparkly eye make up to her first layer.

Focusing really hard, even if you’re constantly smirking down with such adoration at Robin, as you gently hold her face, while she carefully holds your hips. Brushing your fine make up over her, and taking lots of care into making sure it worked well with what she was wearing, and all was done properly to perfection. Making sure Robin really would shine out tonight.

Knowing your girlfriend will give you the same treatment back at some stage. Whether she’s on top of you and doing your make up with care before, in between, or after you’ve gotten undressed, and changed into her very pretty dress. That Robin got just for you, and for her special night.

56 notes · View notes