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surielstea · 4 months ago

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Spelling it Out

Based on a request.

Pairing: Cassian x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is a bit oblivious to Cassian’s flirtations, so Cassian has to go the extra mile to prove he truly wants her.

Warnings: Cassian probably makes some suggestive jokes somewhere in here, but it’s all fluff! :)

4.6k words.

"I brought coffee," I announce as I step into the studio's warm embrace, the door swinging shut behind me to keep the morning chill at bay. I balance the two cups in one hand, the other cradling the new set of paints Feyre had asked me to pick up this morning.

"Back here!" Feyre's voice carries from the storage room, muffled slightly by the rustling of cardboard.

I follow the sound, stepping into the small back area where she's surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. She exhales in relief as she rushes up to me, taking her coffee with eager hands.

"You're a lifesaver," she groans, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. "Thank you."

I set the paints down, glancing at the boxes. "I thought the shipments were too heavy to unload?"

Feyre hums around her coffee, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I had help—"

Before she can finish, a figure stalks through the doorway, his presence effortlessly filling the space. A box—one that Feyre and I together had struggled to move—rests in his arms like it weighs nothing.

"This should be the last one," the male says, setting it down with casual ease.

His voice is deep, rough-edged in a way that demands attention. I take in the broad cut of his shoulders, the way his wings shift behind him, arching slightly as he straightens. And then I see his face—hazel eyes rich as molten gold, a scar cutting through his dark brow, and a mouth curled into an easy, knowing smile. He's ruggedly handsome, but not in that delicate, ethereal way most High Fae are. No, he's something else entirely—something solid, real.

"Help from Cassian," Feyre finishes, amusement lacing her tone.

The name stiles me immediately, and I was a fool for not immediately putting it together the second I saw him. Cassian. Lord of Bloodshed.

He turns his gaze to me, openly assessing, and I take the opportunity to do the same. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he's mapping every detail—filing it away for later.

"I didn't know we'd have company," I say, forcing my focus back to the present. "I would've brought another coffee."

Cassian huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, no need. I've been up for hours." His voice carries the same warmth as his grin, rough yet inviting. "But that's a kind gesture."

I nod, offering a small smile in return.

"I don't believe you two have officially met," Feyre chimes in, shifting her attention between us. "Cass, this is my very talented friend. She keeps this place running."

"She gives me too much credit," I say, shaking my head.

Cassian, however, tilts his head, his expression unreadable. "I doubt that." The certainty in his tone knocks something loose in my chest.

"This is Cassian," Feyre continues, grinning. "Rhys' brother and the best guy to call for lifting heavy things."

Cassian makes a sound of protest. "Don't forget hilarious, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—I mean, the list goes on."

I huff a quiet laugh as he extends his hand.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cassian." I smile as I take his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, his grip firm but not overwhelming.

"Likewise, sweetheart." His smirk deepens, and before I can pull away, his thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand—a touch so fleeting, so deliberate, that I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he winks, a quick, knowing thing, before finally releasing me.

I swallow, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. I've heard the stories from Feyre, how when she originally arrived in the night court she may as well have ended up with Cassian with his relentless flirting. He's joking, I remind myself. That's just how he is.

Cassian dusts his hands off on his leathers before flashing me an easy grin. "You must be the one keeping Feyre sane around here."

I huff a quiet laugh, setting down the paints. "I do my best. But she keeps me busy."

"She does that," he muses, glancing at Feyre. "Though I didn't realize she had such a beautiful assistant."

I blink at him, caught off guard. "Oh—I'm not really her assistant. More like a glorified errand runner."

Feyre scoffs. "That is not true."

Cassian's gaze flicks back to me, assessing. "You're an artist too, then?"

I nod while shucking off my winter coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. "That's the idea."

His grin widens. "Now I'm definitely going to start hanging around more. I could use a few painting tips."

Feyre snorts. "You paint?"

"Not yet," he says, unbothered. "But I'm a fast learner. And I've always appreciated a good work of art."

Something about the way he says it, about the way his hazel eyes flick over me like he's taking his time, makes my stomach flutter.

But before I can respond, he flashes me a smirk, turning back to Feyre. "Anyway, mission accomplished. Boxes are in, and I fully expect my reward."

"Which is?" Feyre asks dryly.

Cassian smirks. "Your eternal gratitude. And maybe a good bottle of whiskey, if Rhys is feeling generous."

Feyre rolls her eyes, but I can't help my smile.

"How about next time we need your help, you'll be the first one we call?" I suggest, noticing Feyre's playful disinterest in rewarding him for being a good friend.

Cassian grins like I've just made his day. "Oh, sweetheart. You can call me anytime."

His voice drops just enough to send an odd warmth curling through my stomach. But before I can overthink it, he turns toward the door.

Cassian turns slightly, glancing at me and Feyre. "I'll be seeing you around, hopefully." He directs at me. "See you for dinner, Feyre."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving only the scent of wind and cracking embers in his wake.

I shake my head, amused, as I turn back to Feyre—only to find her already watching me over the rim of her coffee cup.

"What?"

She only smirks, taking a slow sip. "Nothing."

I frown but brush it off, reaching for the new paints.

Cassian was just being friendly. That's all.

Right?

—

From that moment on, Cassian made every excuse to come to the studio. Half the time, he didn't even bother with a valid reason—just threw out a casual "I was in town" when, in reality, he always was. Velaris wasn't nearly as big as he made it out to be.

The bell above the door rang, and I didn't need to look up to know whose footsteps were approaching behind me.

"Is that supposed to be a bird?" Cassian mused, leaning over my shoulder.

I scoffed, shoving his face away. "It's a dog, and you know it."

He chuckled, easily dodging my half-hearted push and settling right back beside me. "Mmm. If you say so." His wings rustled as he peered at my work again, this time with something softer in his expression. "It's amazing, sweetheart. You're so damn talented."

The sincerity in his voice made my stomach flutter. I tilted my head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the rare note of awe in his tone.

That awe melted into something else—something warm and teasing—as he placed both hands on my shoulders and started kneading gently.

I nearly groaned on the spot. "Gods, you're perfect at that." I exhaled, practically melting under his touch.

Cassian hummed, his thumbs working expertly over the knots in my shoulders.

I sighed blissfully, rolling my shoulders into his hands. "You should've been a healer."

He chuckled, his breath fanning against my ear. "I'd rather just take care of you, sweetheart."

I smiled, tilting my head further into his touch, completely missing the way his fingers stilled for a beat before continuing their slow, deliberate strokes.

"You really are tense," he murmured, pressing into the tight muscles just beneath my neck. "Is this what happens when you spend all day hunched over, painting little dogs that look like birds?"

I smacked his arm lightly. "If you're going to insult my work, at least pretend to be subtle about it."

"Who said anything about insulting?" His thumbs dug in a little deeper, his voice dropping just enough to make my skin heat. "I love watching you work. All focused, biting your lip, completely lost in it."

I wrinkled my nose. "That makes me sound like some kind of absent-minded hermit."

Cassian grinned. "A very cute absent-minded hermit."

I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Cassian."

"That's funny because I feel like it's getting me everywhere," he mused, his hands still kneading at my shoulders. "You're practically purring."

"I am not purring," I argued, though I made no move to stop him.

"Cassian, stop distracting my employees!" Feyre's voice rang from the back room, laced with exasperation.

Cassian smirked, straightening up from where he'd been massaging my shoulders. "Employee," he corrected with a lazy grin. "And I'm motivating her."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, a phantom pressure I refused to dwell on.

He chuckled, stepping back, stretching in that way that made every muscle in his absurdly broad body flex just enough to be noticed. His wings flared slightly, shifting behind him like an afterthought before he shot me another smirk. "I'll let you get back to it, sweetheart." Then, with a slow tilt of his head—"Unless you'd rather take a break and let me keep working these magic hands?"

My breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to scoff. "No," I said, ignoring the small blush creeping up my neck. "But... could I ask you a favor?"

Cassian perked up instantly, arms folding over his chest. "Anything, gorgeous."

I hesitated, suddenly second-guessing myself, but forged ahead. "I need to paint an anatomical feature I've been studying. I have a few reference images, but..." I swallowed, glancing at his wings. "I was hoping I could use you as a live model?"

His brows lifted, hazel eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My wings?"

I nodded. "Your wings are far more magnificent than the sketches in my book."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded—how appreciative they were—and my face went hot.

Cassian, of course, took full advantage. His wings stretched slightly as if preening under the attention. "You just trying to get me shirtless, sweetheart?"

A very unhelpful image flashed in my head—of him, shirtless, all sculpted muscle and golden skin, wings fanned out behind him in the studio's soft light.

"No!" I blurted, before catching myself. "I mean—it's just for the wings."

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Only teasing, sweetheart. I'd love to."

I exhaled in relief. "Good. Are you free tomorrow?"

He tilted his head, grinning. "I'm here whenever you want me."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.

I bit my lower lip slightly, nodding. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't thank me so fast," he mused, gaze flicking to me with unmistakable mischief. "You owe me after this."

I narrowed my eyes. "Owe you what?"

Cassian made a show of looking away, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. "Haven't decided yet," he hummed, lips twitching. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll think of something."

I huffed, waving him off. "Go bother someone else, Cassian."

He gave a dramatic bow, smirk firmly in place. "As you wish."

And with that, he sauntered off, wings twitching ever so slightly as he disappeared into the back of the studio—leaving Feyre standing there, watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I turned back to my canvas, heat still prickling my skin.

—

I wasn't nervous.

There was no reason to be nervous.

It was just a painting. Just a model session. Nothing different from the dozens I'd done before.

Except, of course, this time the model was Cassian. And he was currently standing in the doorway of the studio, a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Told you I'd be here whenever you wanted me."

I cleared my throat, turning away quickly to gather my supplies. "Yes, well, I'd rather not have students knocking over easels trying to get a look at you, so we're setting up in the back."

He let out a low chuckle as he followed me. "What, afraid they'll get distracted?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but I know you will."

"Fair point."

Once we stepped into the back room—where there were no prying eyes or interruptions—I pointed to the stool in the center of the space. "Sit there, facing away from me."

Cassian obeyed, but not before flashing me a smirk. "Getting bossy already?"

I ignored him, busying myself with setting up my canvas. "You can take off your shirt now."

"Damn, sweetheart—at least buy me dinner first."

I froze mid-motion, whipping my head around. "That's not—I didn't—"

Cassian just laughed, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his collar. In one smooth motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table.

I regretted looking.

Because Mother above.

Cassian was made of solid muscle—thick, powerful shoulders, his back broad and sculpted as if the Cauldron had taken extra care in crafting every ridge, every dip, every inch of him. His wings, folded neatly against his back, only added to the sheer size of him.

I swallowed hard, thankful beyond belief that he was facing away.

"You good back there?" Cassian teased.

"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly.

I turned my attention to his wings. The pose needed to be just right—relaxed but natural, something that would emphasize their power without looking stiff or unnatural. I stepped forward, lifting my hands, then hesitated.

"Can I touch?" I asked softly, if there was one thing I learned from studying Illyrian anatomy it's that their wings were sensitive, sacred.

Cassian went still.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—his breath hitched.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. "Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.

I exhaled slowly before pressing my fingertips to the strong, leathery membrane of his wing. Warmth radiated from him, the muscle beneath my touch twitching slightly as I carefully adjusted his positioning.

It was... exhilarating, in a way. To be granted access to something so personal.

I stepped back to assess the placement. "Are they too heavy to hold like that?"

Cassian laughed. "That's adorable."

I frowned. "What?"

"Sweetheart, these wings have carried me through battle, through storms, through the Illyrian mountains at full speed. I think I can manage to hold them still for a few hours."

I huffed. "Fine. But will you be able to sit still?"

That earned me another chuckle, this one softer. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

I shook my head and finally picked up my pencil, settling in front of my canvas.

"Alright," I murmured to myself, letting my nerves melt away as I focused on the work ahead. "Let's begin."

The soft scratch of pencil against canvas filled the room, steady, rhythmic—an anchor keeping me grounded as I worked.

I started with the shape of his wings, mapping out their vast expanse, the way they framed his body like an extension of his very presence. The leather stretched taut over powerful muscle, lined with delicate veins and faint, nearly imperceptible scars.

I shouldn't have been staring so intently.

I shouldn't have been so utterly captivated by every detail of him.

And yet, as I let my pencil glide over the page, shaping the curve of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the corded muscles of his back... I couldn't stop.

He's just a model. Just another subject.

Then why did my fingers tremble slightly when I shaded the deep ridges of his scars? Why did my chest tighten at the thought of what he must have endured to earn them?

Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his shoulders, his wings twitching.

I snapped out of my daze, scowling. "Sit still."

He huffed a laugh. "I don't think I've ever sat this still in my entire life."

I hummed in response, refocusing. Carefully, I traced the lines of his back, the contours of muscle that spoke of centuries of battle, of training, of dedication. My gaze flicked up to his wings again, and a quiet sigh escaped me.

"What's that sound for?" he asked, the amusement clear in his voice.

I hesitated, then admitted, "They really are beautiful, you know."

Cassian stilled for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you actually like having me here."

I rolled my eyes. "You act like I don't."

Silence.

A pause, just long enough to make my stomach flutter with uncertainty.

Then, "Good. I like being here."

I pressed my lips together, pretending that warmth hadn't bloomed in my chest at his words. Pretending that I wasn't getting lost in the strong, elegant lines of his body.

I dipped my brush into the paint, moving on from the sketch to the first careful strokes of color.

Cassian's voice broke through the quiet. "You know, if you wanted a full anatomy study, you could've just asked."

I blinked, pulling back slightly. "...What?"

He turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "You're painting my back, too, aren't you?"

My cheeks heated. "Well—yes, but—"

"Seems unfair to only get half the view."

I huffed. "I don't need the full view, Cassian."

His smirk deepened. "That's a shame. I'd be a very cooperative model."

I nearly choked on air. "Just—shut up and sit still."

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, settling in my bones.

I shouldn't have been enjoying this so much.

I shouldn't have been admiring the golden-brown glow of his skin, the way the light cast soft shadows over the planes of his back. I shouldn't have let my eyes linger on the scars that marred him—proof of all he had endured, of everything he had survived.

And I certainly shouldn't have wished that all his teasing, all his flirtation, was anything more than just casual banter.

Cassian was like this with everyone.

Wasn't he?

I was not going to let Cassian distract me.

Even if he was currently sprawled in front of me, shirtless, his wings stretched just so, his body the most stunning thing I'd ever painted.

Even if his words curled around me like smoke, warm and teasing, making my thoughts race in ways they shouldn't.

I swallowed hard and turned my attention back to the canvas, forcing myself to focus.

I just had to finish the painting.

And ignore the way my heart had begun to beat just a little too fast.

The rhythmic strokes of my brush filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of bristles against canvas and the steady sound of Cassian's breathing.

Nearly an hour has passed, and to his credit, he'd been holding still remarkably well. Mostly.

"You're awfully quiet back there, sweetheart," Cassian mused, his voice carrying just the hint of a smirk. "Not getting bored, are you?"

I huffed, dipping my brush into a deeper shade of pigment. "I'm working, Cassian."

"I am your work right now."

I rolled my eyes. "And you're a very high-maintenance subject."

Cassian chuckled. "I prefer engaging. You should be thanking me, really. Keeps things from getting dull."

I let out a soft laugh despite myself. "You're half-naked in front of me, Cassian. Things aren't exactly dull."

Silence.

A beat too long.

I froze as I realized what I'd just said.

Cassian's wings twitched. Then, "Well, well."

I groaned. "Forget I said that."

"Oh, absolutely not." He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the smug curve of his lips. "You just admitted to being entertained by me. I'm savoring this moment."

"I said forget it."

"Nope. It's mine now."

I sighed, glaring at the canvas like it had personally wronged me.

Cassian chuckled again but thankfully let it drop, settling back into his position.

A few minutes passed in something almost resembling peace. I worked on layering in the first washes of color, the warm tones of his skin against the deeper hues of his wings.

Then—"So, do I get a say in how I'm portrayed?"

I lifted a brow. "Are you worried about artistic liberties?"

"A little."

I fought back a smile. "I could make you look very dramatic, if that's what you're asking. Add some storm clouds in the background. Maybe a tragic tear rolling down your face."

Cassian snorted. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not be mistaken for some brooding, tortured soul."

I hummed. "That is Azriel's aesthetic."

"Exactly. We can't both have it."

"I don't know," I mused. "I think it could work. Maybe a single candle for dramatic lighting—"

"Absolutely not."

I grinned, but before I could make another remark, Cassian stretched, his wings flexing slightly before tucking back into place. The movement was so fluid, so casual—so utterly him.

I quickly went in with another light sketch, wanting to capture the way his muscles moved, the effortless strength in his frame.

"You still with me back there?" he teased, amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes, Cassian. Some of us are capable of focusing."

"Some of us just don't need to focus that hard to admire what's in front of us."

I frowned slightly, not quite catching his meaning. "What?"

He chuckled. "Nothing, sweetheart."

I shook my head, deciding not to press it.

"Alright," I finally said, leaning back to study my work. "I have the basics down. You can put your shirt back on now."

Cassian made a low, exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd need me to pose for a few more hours."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't sound too heartbroken. I will be making you sit for another session later."

His grin was wicked. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Shut up and put your shirt on, Cassian."

He laughed, grabbing his discarded shirt—but the knowing look in his eyes told me that he'd be holding onto this moment for a long time.

And for some reason, I didn't mind one bit.

—

Cassian came in for many sessions after that.

I probably could've finished the painting on my own after the first few sittings, but he insisted I get all the colors right, all the details perfect. And, well... I wasn't exactly going to complain about having him shirtless in front of me for hours on end.

So, day after day, he showed up, sauntering into the studio with that insufferable smirk, stretching his wings like he owned the place. And I let him, indulged him—indulged myself—until the painting was finally finished, until there was no reason for him to sit for me anymore.

The thought left a strange hollowness in my chest, but I ignored it, focusing instead on adding the final highlights to his wings.

Cassian shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders.

I glanced up. "Getting restless?"

He grinned. "You gonna keep me trapped here all day, sweetheart?"

I smirked. "You're free to go anytime." I glanced at the painting. "But you'd be leaving unfinished art behind, and that would just be tragic."

Even though all I had left to add was a small, near-invisible highlight, I liked the idea of keeping him there just a little longer.

Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll sit still for you a little longer."

Something in the way he said it—for you—sent a ripple of warmth through me, but I shoved it aside. I exhaled, finally setting my brush down.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're officially free."

Cassian groaned dramatically, standing and rolling his neck. "Finally." He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he slung it over his shoulder, turning toward me with that insufferable smirk. "Is it done?"

I turned the easel slightly toward him.

It was hard to admire my own work. After staring at it for so long in every unfinished form, I wasn't sure if I loved it or if I just loved the image I had painted. But I could say I was proud of it. That was enough.

Cassian stepped closer, blinking at the still-wet canvas. His brows lifted, his mouth parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't crack a joke, didn't smirk like he usually did.

I shifted under his gaze. "Well?"

He inhaled, slow. "Sweetheart..." He sounded almost reverent. "It's... it's beautiful."

A laugh bubbled from my lips. "You're only saying that because it's you I painted."

"No—I mean, I am beautiful, but this is... magnificent." His voice was softer than usual, quieter.

Something flickered in his eyes as he turned toward me, something warm and fond. It was enough to make my stomach flip.

I swallowed. "Thanks, Cass."

His grin returned. "Proud of yourself?"

I nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I am."

His wings twitched. "Good. You should be."

A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment, the weight of his words pressing into me in a way I wasn't sure how to handle.

Then Cassian cleared his throat, stretching his arms over his head. "Now that it's finished..."

Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of anticipation down my spine.

He grinned. "...About my favor?"

I groaned. "You actually kept track of that?"

Cassian scoffed. "Sweetheart, I'd never forget a promise like that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing me like he was scheming. "And I know exactly what I want."

A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.

And for some reason, my stomach flipped all over again.

I raised a brow, waiting.

Cassian took a step forward. Then another.

My stomach flipped. "Okay?"

"I want you to go out with me."

I blinked. "What?"

His smirk deepened. "That's my favor. You and me. A date."

I stared at him, sure I'd misheard. "You're joking."

"Nope."

My heart did something strange, something uneven, and I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Cassian, you flirt with everyone."

"Not like this." His voice was quieter now. Steady.

I swallowed. "But—you're just messing with me. You've been messing with me this whole time."

Cassian sighed, running a hand down his face. "Gods, you're impossible." Before I could react, he stepped closer, hands coming up to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

My breath hitched.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting my chin up slightly. "Listen to me. I have not spent weeks finding every excuse under the sun to come here, sitting shirtless for hours just so you'd look at me, calling in a whole-ass favor just to take you out—just to mess with you."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Cassian's thumbs brushed against my skin again, his hazel eyes locked on mine. "I like you. I want you. And I swear to the Gods, if I have to spell it out anymore, I'm going to start carving it into the damn walls."

I let out a breathless laugh, my face burning. "You're serious."

His lips curled. "Took you long enough."

I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I—"

"Just say yes, sweetheart," he murmured, voice teasing, but there was something else in his gaze—something warm, something steady. Something real.

I swallowed hard. Yes."

Cassian grinned. "Good choice."

His hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before he pulled back, grabbing his shirt off his shoulder and throwing it on. He shot me one last smirk as he backed toward the door.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow after your class."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there—heart racing, mind spinning, trying to process the fact that Cassian had actually just asked me out.

That all this time, he hadn't been messing with me at all.

Feyre was going to laugh at me for not catching on sooner when I tell her.

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prickly-paprikash · 6 months ago

Text

Jinx is an extremely touchy person. She wraps around like a coil around the person she loves, no matter what. It's most evident with Silco and her helping him with his daily injection—no matter what, Silco allows his daughter to curl and coil and wrap around him, giving no thought to her embrace. That's his child, why wouldn't he let her barge into his office while he's balancing books and lean against him whenever she feels like it.

We see this with Isha too. And Vi.

We also see this with Powder and Ekko.

In Benzo's workshop, Powder just wraps around Ekko like she belongs in his space. She leans into him, constantly getting in close because Ekko is the central focus of her affections here.

So when Ekko starts showing signs of discomfort around her, and he acts bizarrely throughout the day, she slowly pulls back. When they enter Vander's bar, she's dragging Ekko around without a care. By the end of that scene and as they enter Powder's place, visiting Vi's shrine, Powder has backed off. She knows something's up.

Even when Ekko apologizes with Vi's mural, Powder still knows something's different with Ekko and keeps a respectful distance. With Isha and Silco, and to an extent Warwick and Vi, she likes being in their spaces. Being all up in their faces.

It's when the episode implies that Powder has figured it out, checking through Ekko and Heimerdinger's notes that this Ekko has been pulled in by the Wild Rune from another dimension that she starts to close in just a bit more. She watches him, drinking in the fact that this Ekko is so much like the one she loves, but also so different. So new.

So she starts slow.

Watching him. Giving him her attention. The first time she finally, truly touches him again is when she plucks off Heimerdinger's hair off his face—and Ekko doesn't shy away this time.

We see this as well in the dance. Ekko and Powder, even as the world melts away around them, still have a respectful yet intimate distance between them. They dance around each other, before slowly but surely dancing into each other.

During their talk, Powder finally reclaims her spot beside him. Leaning into him. Breathing him in. And Ekko lets her.

We finally see this dynamic at play once more when Ekko asks her to "pretend like it's the first time."

She knows. She isn't pretending here. She knows she's giving Ekko his first kiss, their first kiss.

Powder has probably wanted to just touch Ekko these past few days, but she knew something was different. And when she watched Ekko leave for his universe, she felt relieved to have her Ekko back, while still cherishing those precious few moments she had with our Ekko, as seen when she tucks away his necklace.

It's such a subtle thing. Unspoken, but extremely prevalent.

#arcane #arcane season 2 #jinx #ekko #timebomb #jinxekko #ekkojinx #powder

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pedgito · 6 months ago

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↝ ALONE, IN MY MIND (14k words)

Summary: So what if Eddie Munson had a really pretty face, it was just too good not to admire. So what if you liked to draw him in your free time, he definitely didn’t mind. Yet somehow, tutoring him still felt like the most scandalous thing you’ve ever done.

↝ OUR LITTLE SECRET (1.7k words)

Summary: Tardies were becoming a regular occurrence and you couldn’t handle another day of boring detention, but Eddie couldn’t resist the chance to worship you in every way possible. Just be quick, no one had to know.

↝ RENTALS & RECORDS (11k words)

Summary: Eddie can’t hide the fact that he’s sort of obsessed with you, but you can’t deny that you might be secretly obsessed with him too.

↝ FORBIDDEN FRUIT (series — 1, 2, 3, 4)

Summary: You find yourself torn between the idea that even though Eddie is in a position of authority as your professor, he’s still what you crave the most.

↝ DON'T HANG UP (mini-series — 1, 2, 3)

Summary: Eddie’s got a late night bone to pick with you; only one minor sexual inconvenience in the way, but that doesn’t stop you from picking up his call and Eddie doesn’t want to hang up either.

↝ TAKE IT SLOW (3k words)

Summary: It wasn’t your fault your dealer liked to give you special treatment and kiss you in private, those were just the perks of being a very loyal customer, aside from the fact that he was probably falling in love with you.

↝ SCREAM MY NAME (15k words)

Summary: Summer of 96’, fresh off the anniversary of the tragedy that took place one year ago—you and your friend are ready to enjoy your last few days of freedom and fun, but someone has other plans in mind and everyone is fair game.

↝ FAKING IT (12k words)

Summary: Your career was built on luck and fortunate circumstances, but that was bound to run out at some point. Enter Eddie Munson, rockstar extraordinaire, the reason for your life being thrust into chaos—but, fake it til you make it, right?

↝ CAMERA SHY (mini series — 1, 2)

Summary: Eddie’s a popular camboy, along with your best friend Steve. one lucky introduction manages to turn your life upside down, arguably, for the better.

↝ GET YOUR FIX (5k words)

Summary: Adventures in your shared obsessions of each other and your bodies—and Eddie was insatiable when it came to you.

↝ SIMPLE RULES (unfinished series – 1, 2)

Summary: Eddie doesn’t have his life together any better than the next person, but for his daughter, he fakes it well. Sll he really needed was balance, but he wasn’t sure that even existed—not until you.

OLD MASTERLIST, INCLUDING REQUESTS (1 & 2)

NOTE: I've written like 80+ things for this dude and most of my posts have broken links so this is an attempt at fixing broken links on multiple series that I posted over two years ago, I'm too lazy to go through the process and figured this is easier lmao.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #joseph quinn #eddie munson x f!reader #giving him a spot on my masterlist finally #back to regularly scheduled programming

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yeah-thats-probably-it · 9 months ago

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#what i love about this is that to bertie it's a foregone conclusion that it's Their Car#it isn't 'you should take the car' it's 'why on earth would you take the train? we've got a car you know!'#the employer-employee relationship has become the thinnest possible fiction for married behaviour#and honestly this is making me feel a lot better about the spinoza thing. like. to bertie being mindful of jeeves is just normal.#why WOULDN'T he take the car. it's easier. bertie might not have remembered to tell jeeves to take the car#if jeeves hadn't told him when the train was leaving but it isn't because bertie doesn't care. he just assumes jeeves would take the car.#the guy had to order the spinoza. we know we don't see a lot of the conversations they have and basically all they do whenever there isn't#any plot going on is talk to each other about daily news literature history whatever jeeves is reading.#so it seems a lot more likely that we just didn't see that bit of communication happening than it is for bertie to forget briefly about#the book he wanted to give jeeves and then decide oh well let's hold onto it until christmas. because that doesn't make any sense - that's#a level of unthinking that's more about 'well who cares' than about 'i had a very busy few days and was at my aunts place so i couldn't#pick up your book'#the same in regards to bertie interrupting jeeves - because he (iirc) usually only does it when Something Is Going On#he likes hearing jeeves talk about poetry! he asks about his family! but he doesnt want to hear about jeeves aunts while he's In A Situatio#(and honestly. 1) jeeves sometimes has very bad timing. see the bicycle story. the 'cheesewright is going to crush you like a fly' thing.#the 'that's a lot of money you're owing and captain biggar is not patient' thing from RFJ. he just gets a little carried away#2) having started tally ho (thank you for recommending it btw!) this is so incredibly stressful. like. i have been underestimating#just how stressful the situations bertie gets into are. jeeves must have nerves of steel. we know that bertie does not.#and if i had to deal with not even an unwanted engagement but just a situation like 'this guy's fake moustache might fall off after#i went to some lengths to smuggle him in' and someone tried to talk to me about their aunt i would also think that This Is Not The Moment.#Can't You See Everyone Here Is An Idiot And I'm Somehow Responsible. this is the most stressed i've been in my life. (i am having a lot of#fun aside from and during the stressful! it's just stressful af) so really bertie should get a break for that#very long story short this is absolutely married behaviour

tags from @noandnooneelse

While we’re on the subj. of Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, this earlier scene drives me insane too, because speaking in just black and white, contractual terms, Bertie, you literally DO have the option? You’re the only one who has an option in this situation. You have the power to tell him he can’t go, you are literally his employer. And then he offers Jeeves use of the car to go to London, even though Jeeves never would’ve asked! Married behavior! Married behavior!!! This is the sort of negotiation spouses have with each other, we are fully out of the realm of master/servant now

#i like that interpretation of the car! like bertie truly just forgets that jeeves is technically still employed by him #and therefore technically isn’t supposed to be allowed to take the liberty #re spinoza i said this before but my assumption has always been that it was a second spinoza book #(either that or plum just forgot when bertie was supposed to have given him the spinoza. which is entirely possible)#but if it IS the same spinoza as the one in jitm that can probably still be explained #as the bookseller didn’t have it and needed to order it in #maybe there were shipping delays #maybe there was a series of comical misunderstandings where none of the people at the shipping facility were familiar with spinoza either #so they kept sending books with titles that sound vaguely similar with an increasing amount of distance from the name spinoza #getting more and more implausible #so by the time the bookseller actually got the correct book it was closer to christmas anyway #it DOES however sometimes bother me when bertie interrupts jeeves when he’s trying to talk about something tbh #but you’re right that jeeves does often have pretty terrible timing #and bertie DOES like to talk about poetry w him at other times #(also sometimes i think jeeves does the badly timed infodumping thing on purpose to be a shit)#(the example you give in rfj for example. i fully believe he was needling bill about the amount of money on purpose)#(bc he was annoyed at him for not listening to his advice to drop the bet)#also god yes tally ho can be so stressful #when you buy the game they give you access to the documents with all the coding #and i have to admit that i looked at the code to figure out how to do what i was trying to do sometimes #it’s interesting to look at actually though because the way different options affect your stats is actually quite complex and sophisticated #like sometimes a given option will increase a stat you want increased while decreasing another #or decreasing your relationship with another character #so you have to decide which advantages you’re willing to trade off in order to gain other advantages #it’s a really tricky balancing act i’m amazed jeeves hasn’t snapped under the strain

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mournthebird · 8 months ago

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Shower Suds.

summary: You give Soldat his first bath out of captivity.

a/n: This wasn't supposed to be so long, but somehow it always happens when I write about him. Something sorta comforting with some recovery thrown in there. Unedited because I worked on this for so long lol ignore mistakes please! ;; wc: 5.8k

Filthy. You felt bad, really.

There was a lot of problems to tackle with Soldat's condition, but first thing's first...the soldier needed a bath. Badly.

He was dirty, his hair knotted, matted, greasy, his skin was covered in sweat and dirt, probably blood under the black uniform he still wore. The poor man stunk, and he didn't seem to even notice. Or care.

You found yourself in a bit of a hard situation, unsure of the best approach to cleanse him. A bath seemed problematic; he would essentially be marinating in his own grime, which was far from ideal. Would he sit for that long? Would he fight you? You weren't entirely positive.

On the other hand, a shower presented its own set of challenges. Your observations over the past days had revealed his struggle with prolonged standing. He didn't seem to want to stand for very long and often sat or laid down when he could. The majority of his time was spent either huddled in the furthest corner of the room or barricaded within the confines of the small closet, as if seeking refuge from an unseen threat.

As you mulled over the options, weighing the pros and cons of each, you ultimately figured a shower would be better in terms of cleanliness…if anything, you could have him sit in the bottom of the tub. Better than sitting in dirty water with the increased possibility of infection.

But there was one problem. How the hell would you get him into the bathroom in the first place?

You took a breath in, preparing for the worst, and went to the room he stayed in. It was the spare room in your apartment you barely used, but had been furnished as a bedroom in case someone you knew needed a place for a night or something. Not that you ever figured your friends would want to stay with you, you didn't have many to begin with. When you came in, your eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, spotting him huddled up in the corner like expected.

He didn't look up at you when you walked in, his gaze fixed downward and obscured by the curtain of his long, unkempt hair. The stillness that enveloped him was almost unnerving. Only when you took a few steps closer did he react, his head snapping up at you. His eyes bright blue against the dark, messy ink that surrounded them, like he tried to smudge off the black paint but failed.

You took another step forward, your movements slow and deliberate. You could see the change in his demeanor immediately with your approach, even as careful as it was; his breathing became more rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace like he was preparing to be harmed.

"It's okay," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand extended slightly, palm open to try to soothe him. Carefully, you lowered yourself to his level, bending your knees until you were crouching before him. This position, you hoped, would make you appear less imposing and more approachable.

In the few days he had been in your care, you had begun to discern patterns in his behavior, learning to recognize the subtle cues that indicated his comfort level. You had started to understand which actions he perceived as threatening and which ones helped him feel more at ease. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience and constant observation, but you were determined to create an environment where he could begin to feel safe and secure.

"I think...a bath sounds nice. Doesn't it?" You asked him softly, smiling slightly to show you weren't intending to do any sort of harm. "It will feel good to clean off all that dirt...nice and warm water too...you've been shivering." You noted how cold he appeared to be, he was still latched in his cold clothes from when you found him. You were surprised the uniform kept in water.

He remained motionless, prompting you to reluctantly take a step backwards to leave him alone, you’d try later. As you turned away, the faint sound of movement caught your attention. Glancing back, you saw the soldier had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed upon you with an air of expectancy. "Would you like to come and shower?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Да." His voice was a harsh, grating sound, reminiscent of shattered glass scraping against parched earth. It was as though he hadn't uttered a word or tasted a drop of water in an eternity. Despite the brevity and roughness of his reply, it carried a weight of affirmation. You found yourself oddly relieved by this simple acknowledgment. It wasn't much, but in that moment, it felt like a significant step forward. The fact that he had agreed seemed like a small victory.

You had him in the bathroom. That was a good thing.

You pivoted slowly to face him, your gaze carefully scanning his imposing figure. For behaving so meekly, he was an intimidating body to be this close to. Your eyes meticulously traced the contours of his suit, lingering on the intricate array of tactical belts and buckles that adorned his outfit. Each piece seemed to serve a specific purpose, hinting at the dangerous nature of his profession. Your hand tentatively reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they approached one of the sturdy buckles.

Your action was met with an immediate and startling response from the soldier. His metal hand shot up with inhuman speed, grasping your wrist tightly, the cold metal a stark contrast to your warm skin. His hold was firm and unyielding, like a vice grip, yet it wasn't painful.

As his hand clasped around your wrist, his entire body tensed, transforming into a living statue. You couldn't help but flinch slightly at the abruptness of his reaction, your body instinctively recoiling even as his grip held you in place.

"I-It's okay, I promise," you managed to say, your voice deliberately calm and steady to avoid startling him further. You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. "I'm just going to help you undress for the shower... I promise I won't hurt you or do anything you're not comfortable with. We're just getting you cleaned up, that's all."

Your words didn't seem to have much effect at first. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his jaw flexed with tension. You remained patient, maintaining a soothing tone and open body language. "Take all the time you need," you added softly. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. It’s just you and me." His eyes scanned you intently, searching for any hint of deception or ill intent. You met his gaze steadily, allowing him to see the sincerity in your eyes. After what felt like an eternity, his grip on your wrist slowly loosened until he finally released you completely.

Second time's the charm. You reached out with steady hands, your fingers finding the first buckle on his tactical suit. With careful precision, you unfastened it, the metallic click echoing softly in the bathroom. Then, you moved to the next one, and the next, methodically working your way through each fastening. The process was slow but deliberate, each buckle giving way under your patient touch until, finally, the last one came undone. You paused, surveying your handiwork as the suit lay open, no longer confining him.

With the buckles undone, your attention turned to the decked out belt encircling his hips. You grasped the front, feeling the sturdy material beneath your fingers. You pulled the belt free from the thick buckle, the black leather sliding smoothly through the loops. As you removed the belt, you took care to lay it gently on the floor beside you, the heavy belt colliding with the tile was bound to make him jump and you didn’t want that.

The belt now removed, you returned your focus to the suit itself. Your hands found the straps, and you began to loosen them, pulling them out slowly and methodically. His uniform reminded you of a rehashed straight jacket, the uniform nearly acting just as one. When the tight suit gradually relinquished its grip, you noticed an immediate change in the soldier’s demeanor. The restrictive pressure eased, and you could see his chest rise and fall more freely. It was as if a weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe deeply for the first time in who knows how long.

You watched, a mix of concern and relief washing over you, as he took in several deep breaths. The realization hit you then, a jolt of disbelief and worry. The suit had been so constricting that it had barely allowed him to breathe properly. The thought was infuriating. What kind of protection was that? What twisted logic had led to the creation of gear that endangered its wearer almost as much as it shielded them? You found yourself shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell...

"There we go...good..." You praised calmly, your voice a soothing whisper in the quiet room. He stood before you, now shirtless, his muscular frame tense with anticipation as he awaited your next move. Your eyes couldn't help but linger on his exposed torso, taking in every detail of his battle-worn body.

His skin was a canvas marked by the harsh realities of his past. Bruises in various stages of healing painted his flesh in a morbid palette of purples, yellows, and greens. Fresh cuts, angry and red, intermingled with older, silvery scars, creating a chaotic tapestry across his skin. Each mark had a different cause, accidental, intentional, self inflicted.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to the most prominent feature: the junction where flesh met metal at his shoulder. The scar tissue surrounding his prosthetic arm was a sight that made your heart ache. It wasn't a clean, surgical line as one might expect, but rather a jagged, angry border that spoke of crude methods and little regard for the body it was attached to. The metal seemed to dig cruelly into his flesh, as if it were trying to consume more of him. You couldn't help but wonder about the pain he must have endured during the procedure, imagining how they had torn him apart with brutal efficiency, prioritizing function over comfort or aesthetics.

Despite the visible evidence of his suffering, he stood tall and stoic, awaiting your next move with a mixture of trust and trepidation in his eyes.

You offered him a gentle, comforting smile, you were acutely aware of his attempts to appear strong, but the reality of his fear was unmistakable. In that spare room, his demeanor reminded you of a cornered animal, flinching and retreating whenever the door creaked open. He cowered from you, even when you tried to give him water to drink. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, you didn’t know much of what happened just yet, but you knew whatever it was must’ve been utterly horrific.

"I'm going to help you out of your trousers now," you explained in a soft, reassuring tone. "Then we'll get you into the shower. The warm water will help you feel better, I promise." You paused, giving him a moment to process your words before adding, "Is that okay with you?"

He remained motionless. His lack of response was telling - not a nod, not a word, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He simply stood there, statuesque, as if bracing himself for whatever was to come next. The stillness was almost eerie, so you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was going to come. You truly hoped he wouldn't begin to put up a fight randomly, you knew you couldn't take him if he did.

You grasped the zipper of his pants and slowly pulled it down, the metallic sound echoing in the quiet room. As the fabric loosened, you gently tugged at the waistband, shuffling them down his muscular thighs and allowing the pants to fall around his ankles. Without a word, he stepped out of them, his movements controlled as he jerked his foot to get the leg of the pants off completely.

His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression betraying no hint of discomfort or self-consciousness at his state of undress. You found yourself averting your eyes, a mix of respect for his privacy and your own sudden shyness causing you to look away.

Turning your attention to the shower, you reached out and adjusted the taps, your hand testing the water until it reached a comfortably warm temperature, you could always adjust it upon request. The sound of cascading water filled the bathroom, creating a soothing ambiance. Once satisfied with the water's warmth, you looked back towards him, your arm extending in a welcoming gesture towards the bathtub. "Come on," you encouraged, your voice soft and inviting, "it's nice and warm." A gentle smile played on your lips, your expression meant to convey comfort and reassurance.

But even with your efforts, he remained motionless, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot where he stood. His lack of movement prompted you to maintain your encouraging demeanor, your smile unwavering as you waited patiently for him to make a decision.

The steam from the shower began to fill the room, creating a misty atmosphere that hung between you, yet he showed no signs of stepping forward or retreating. He just stood there, planted like a tree. You frowned, seeing that he wasn't going to budge.

"Hey, it's okay," you said softly, "It's just water, and it's nice and warm. I promise it will feel so good. You've been shivering for a while now, and I bet the warmth will be really comforting for your cold skin. There's nothing to be afraid of." You continued to encourage him, your tone patient and understanding.

The soldier's reaction was tense and wary. His metal arm plates made a series of soft clicking sounds as he shifted his arm and adjusted his stance, his body language radiating discomfort and distrust, maybe even a hint of growing agitation. The way he eyed the water, you could have sworn he thought you were about to subject him to some form of aquatic torture. His entire demeanor screamed of deep-seated fear and suspicion.

"It's alright, really... Look, see?" You demonstrated by reaching out and touching the water, letting your fingers trail through the warm liquid. You made sure he could clearly see that the water didn't cause you any harm or discomfort. Could he be afraid of the water? The concept seemed strange, but then again, you didn't really know or understand the full extent of his experiences or traumas. You had made so much progress with him already, and now all that remained was for him to sit under the water and allow you to wash him. It seemed so simple, and yet you could see the monumental struggle playing out behind his eyes.

He finally seemed to respond when he observed that you remained unharmed by the water, and he cautiously approached, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes wore wariness with a flicker of curiosity, carefully scanning your form and ensuring you made no abrupt or threatening gestures. As he inched closer, his body language betrayed a conflicting desire for comfort and an instinctive need for self-preservation.

Once he had convinced himself of a relative level of safety, he gingerly stepped into the bath. The warmth of the water seemed to catch him off guard, and with an almost childlike lack of grace, he unceremoniously lowered himself into a sitting position with a loud thud and for a moment, he appeared startled by his own actions.

Now fully seated on the bottom of the tub, he allowed the soothing warmth of the water to cascade down his dirt-encrusted body. The grime that had accumulated over time began to loosen and swirl around him, running down his body and creating murky patterns at the bottom of the textured bathtub.

He sat motionless, gradually acclimating to the comforting warmth of the water cascading down his back in a gentle, soothing shower. It was foreign to him, a luxury he had been denied for far too long. His time with HYDRA had been bereft of such simple comforts; the organization was a cruel and unforgiving entity, more akin to a heartless taskmaster than a nurturing presence.

His experiences with something as harmless as water was vastly different to what you were treating him with now - he was subjected to harsh, icy streams forcefully directed at him, the intense pressure through the hose so severe it felt as though it was stripping away layers of his skin.

He remembers being forcibly submerged by his handlers, a cruel and twisted game that shattered his expectations of a simple, cleansing bath. What should have been a moment of respite transformed into a nightmarish struggle for survival, where he was forced to submit to their ruthless whims.

The memory of sharp, abrasive bristles tearing at his skin and the application of painful, saline substances lingers. He didn’t want to think about the unnecessary groping he encountered either, something he wished he forgot along with his life during the chair’s wipes.

These traumatic encounters left an indelible mark on his psyche, turning what should have been a basic human necessity into a source of fear and anxiety. The handlers' sadistic approach to something as fundamental as personal hygiene served as a constant reinforcement of their control over every aspect of his existence, even the most intimate and essential.

For him, the act of bathing became synonymous with vulnerability, pain, and the complete loss of autonomy, a far cry from the soothing, rejuvenating experience it was meant to be.

This gentle treatment you were providing was so different from the abusive handling he had endured in HYDRA, it almost caused him to panic, the feigning comforts he were offered by handlers before tricked him too many times, and he refused to let his guard down.

His glacial eyes gazed up at you, the poor man looked absolutely pitiful under the steamy water, his once greasy hair now thoroughly soaked as rivulets ran down the contours of his entire body. You took a breath and exhaled out a soft sigh, your hand slowly reaching for your own body wash. You didn't have any products specifically designed for men, so your expensive shampoo would have to suffice until you went shopping.

You pumped the bottle twice, watching as the clear, slightly viscous shampoo pooled into your open palm and the refreshing scent of cucumber and mint permeated the humid air, filling your nostrils with its crisp, clean aroma. You turned and addressed him softly, "Alright, I'm going to wash your hair now. Just try to relax and sit still for me, okay? This might feel a bit cold at first, but I promise it'll feel good once I start massaging it in."

The soldier regarded you with an inscrutable expression, his eyes betraying only a hint of that fight-or-flight instinct, his mind was reeling as he battled the urge to respond to your presence. You knew he had the strength to easily break your arm if he chose to, so you tried your best to be as slow and careful as possible. Your fingers delicately threaded through his hair, methodically working the shampoo into a rich lather. You watched as the suds multiplied and foamed, the soapy shampoo pure white on top and slowly stained the closer it was to his scalp.

You noticed that every so often he would flinch ever so slightly or instinctively pull away from your hands. You wondered if he had hidden injuries or tender spots on his scalp, or bruises or cuts concealed beneath his hair, or maybe knots of tension that had formed from prolonged stress or blunt impacts. His hair must’ve been yanked around, his scalp was extremely tender and while you did your best to soothingly massage, he didn’t enjoy it as much as you hoped because of the discomfort there.

"It's okay, I understand it might be a bit uncomfortable. I’m just getting all that pesky dirt and grime out." You spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone, moving a little bit quicker so you could rinse and move on. After thoroughly rinsing his hair, you applied conditioner in the same manner as the shampoo, and then rinsed it out again. He looked much better now, his hair was now clean, wet, and sleek, with a smooth texture and a noticeable shine. It was so much better than before, and it had to feel better too.

Your hand extended under the rain of water, dampening a soft, handheld washcloth and applying a generous amount of body wash to it. You worked the cloth until it produced a rich lather. The soldier moved which caught your eye, you looked up at him and saw he had recoiled, his gaze fixed warily on the washcloth. He became noticeably slower and more hesitant, his eyes widening slightly as he regarded the cloth with apparent apprehension, as if it posed a threat. You furrowed your brow at his reaction to the cloth, he looked at it like you held a weapon of some kind.

"Hey, it’s alright…this won’t hurt. It’s just a cloth, see? A cloth with some soap," you said softly, you felt so torn up about his reaction to the simplest of things. "I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm just going to wash you a bit...get all that dirt and blood off you." You raised your hand holding the washcloth in a placating gesture. “It’s warm, it will feel good scrubbing off all that dirt, you’ll be nice and clean.”

Gradually, he relented and shifted backwards to where he had been sitting, permitting you to gently glide the damp cloth across his skin, meticulously removing every trace of grime from his body. After a few minutes of washing him, you noticed he was beginning to find comfort in the experience. His eyelids drooped, and his head dipped down slightly, a tired expression settling over his features as he succumbed to the soothing sensation of your ministrations. He wasn’t exactly serene, but he was too drowsy to focus on much else other than the feeling of the rag gliding over his back and flesh arm.

You adjusted him and you tended to his metal arm, diligently working the cloth between the intricate plates and joints of titanium, ensuring that no speck of dirt remained. You weren’t exactly sure how the arm was cleaned prior to finding him, but clearly there wasn’t a worry about rust or anything of the sort. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you unhindered access as the warm water cascaded over his back, leaving a rosy tinge in its wake. He enjoyed the hot temperature, he hadn’t felt hot water in decades.

Your focus then shifted to his lower extremities, concentrating on scrubbing his legs and feet. As the rag moved up to a more sensitive area, you paused, pulling the rag off his skin and slowly extending the washcloth to him. You pointed towards his privates, you softly instructed, "You can…get right there, I’d rather not touch you in that spot."

The furrow on the soldier's brow gave away his visible confusion, his eyes darting between you and the offered rag with a mixture of uncertainty and hesitation. It was clear that he was contemplating with the decision of whether to accept your gesture or not, if there was an ulterior motive, or if this was some sort of test. After what seemed like an eternity of internal debate, he finally extended a trembling hand towards you. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wild animal rather than a simple cloth.

He grasped the rag from your outstretched palm, his fingers curling around it slowly. Once in possession of the cloth, he set about the task of cleaning himself. His actions, though quick, lacked the assurance of someone accustomed to such basic self-care. Each motion seemed so carefully calculated, as if he were relearning a long-forgotten, essential skill. It had been so long since he was allowed to clean himself. His movements were unsteady, his hands quivering slightly as he went about his ablutions.

It had clearly been an extensive period since he had been granted even this small measure of independence. The concept of autonomy was a luxury he had been denied for far too long.

When he was done with his hurried cleansing, the soldier's gaze immediately sought yours out. His eyes, still holding the rag, were filled with expectation, awaiting your next command. His posture tense and ready to respond to whatever instruction you might provide. The rag remained clutched in his hand, as if he were unsure whether to return it or continue holding onto this small token of independence.

"Good, you're all done," you offered a warm smile to him. Despite the wounds still visible on his body, you felt a sense of accomplishment knowing that at least the layers of dirt and grime had been washed away, your work getting him clean would pay off and be better for the both of you. You reached over and turned off the water, the sudden silence broken only by the soft dripping from the showerhead. "Let's get you dried off," you said softly, gesturing for him to step out of the shower.

He complied wordlessly, his movements careful as he stepped onto the bathroom mat. You couldn't help but notice how vulnerable he looked, standing there dripping wet, his eyes never leaving your face, his body completely littered in discoloration. Reaching for a large, fluffy towel, you unfolded it and wrapped it around his shoulders, enveloping him in its warmth to fight off the rapidly cooling water droplets all over him.

As you began to slowly dry his body, you noticed a change come over him. His softened expression now returned to its usual blank mask and the brief relaxation he showed in the shower was long gone by now. His body returned to the stiffness he had before he got in. His eyes remained fixed on you, following your every movement with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

You worked in the quiet calm of the bathroom, carefully patting dry each part of his body, mindful of his injuries. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you to maneuver him as needed, but offering no assistance, like a doll. It was as if he had retreated back into himself, leaving only an empty shell for you to tend to. You wondered what he was thinking behind those watchful, guarded eyes, they were pretty up close. Glacial, stormy blue irises that had been glued to you since you started to tend to him.

After drying him off, you were lucky to find a pair of boxers in your apartment and helped him into them, where they came from wasn’t something you could remember at the moment, but you were glad you had them. He cooperated as you dressed him, then stood there clutching the towel around himself like a security blanket.

His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of expectation and vulnerability, as if silently asking for further guidance or comfort. His wide eyes blinked languidly, and his soft pink lips formed an almost imperceptible pout, giving him an endearing, slightly lost appearance.

Lost. He embodied the word entirely. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Taking in his disheveled state, you smiled a little, "How about we get your hair detangled, hm?" Your voice was warm and reassuring as you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing against the damp strands, feeling the water practically seep out of the ends.

The soldier's reaction was a mix of acceptance and hesitation. While he didn't outright reject the idea, there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in his demeanor. However he didn’t dare reject the idea, worried about any kind of retaliation. So he made his way to the stool nestled beneath the counter and lowered himself onto it. As he settled into position, maintaining a stoic silence, his eyes continued to convey that enigmatic expression, hinting at unspoken thoughts or emotions.

You positioned yourself behind him, your hands instinctively reaching for a comb and a bottle of detangling spray already sat out from your use earlier that day. You recalled how your fingers had encountered numerous knots and tangles when you washed his hair, and thinking about how knotted it looked dirty made you sigh outwardly.

The fine mist of the detangling spray settled on his hair as you applied it methodically, you guided the comb through his locks, working patiently to untangle any knots you encountered. You tried to be as gentle as possible, knowing not only were there a ton of knots, but you remembered his scalp was especially sensitive and sore.

Soldat remained still as a statue, his posture composed and unwavering. His disciplined demeanor allowed you to work unimpeded, your movements careful and unhurried. He maintained a firm grip on the towel draped securely around his body, the fabric acting almost like a barrier and protecting him from the world. You continued to work the comb through his hair, encountering tangles and knots that spoke of recent exertion or neglect.

The process of detangling was slow, your touch continued to be gentle yet purposeful, muttering soft apologies when you ran into an unexpected knot. Teasing apart the snarls with patience and skill, the resistance lessened, and you found yourself able to run the comb smoothly through his hair, the strands falling into neat alignment.

"There we are... much better," you praised softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight of his hair, now brushed out and free of tangles, felt like a monumental achievement. You couldn't help but admire how the clean, detangled strands caught the light, a stark contrast to their earlier disheveled state. Your fingers ran through his locks, gently ruffling the hair from being so flat against his scalp.

You couldn't help but notice the angry red lines marring his skin, peeking out from beneath the towel. The blotchy colors on his skin that ranged from purple to blue, it made you frown. Your instincts as a caretaker kicked in, and you found yourself wondering if he would allow you to tend to those wounds. Hesitantly, you reached out, your fingers barely grazing the edge of the towel just wanting to get a better look at them.

In an instant the soldier suddenly sprang to life, standing with such force that the stool he had been perched on skidded across the tile floor, the harsh scraping sound shattering the previous calm. He retreated to the far corner of the bathroom, his body language screaming defensiveness.

His eyes, which had been closed or downcast for most of your interaction, now bore into you with an intensity that made you freeze. They held fear, yes, but also a raw, primal aggression that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the look of a cornered animal, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

You immediately backpedaled, not wanting to trigger any aggression from him. "Okay, okay... no wound checks," you reassured as you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender. You took a step back, giving him more space, silently cursing yourself for pushing too far, too fast. The fragile trust you had built over the past few minutes seemed to hang by a thread, you didn’t want to snap the little you had.

Your words had a calming effect on Soldat, who clutched the towel tightly in his fists, ensuring it remained securely wrapped around him. His gaze drifted down to his soiled attire, prompting you to shake your head in disapproval. "No, those definitely need to be washed," you explained, your voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur, "And to be honest, these can hardly be called proper clothes. I'll make sure to get you some suitable ones tomorrow, alright?"

Soldat's eyes met yours once more, his gaze still carrying a hint of coldness and wariness, but he managed a brief, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. You gathered his discarded garments and deposited them into the washing machine, silently hoping that the combination of leather and other materials wouldn't prove too much for the aging appliance. The damn thing had to be ran twice already, you just couldn’t afford to buy a new one right now.

As you busied yourself with setting the appropriate wash cycle, Soldat seized the opportunity to hastily retreat to the room that had been designated as his temporary living space.

He immediately gravitated towards the floor, as he had been the past few days. You hadn't seen him use the bed at all, rather stay cuddled in the corner or inside the small space of the closet. The towel long forgotten and laid splayed out on the floor, he ripped the blankets off the bed in one fluid motion and proceeded to wrap himself up in them, burrowing beneath the layers of fabric for comfort and security. The blankets having replaced the towel's symbolism for safety.

You wished he’d rest on the bed rather than the floor, but you knew better than to try to alter what he was doing. Leave him to be comfortable on his own, that is the best thing to do in this situation. And if Soldat wants to sleep on the floor in a huddle of blankets, then fine.

You approached the doorway, peering inside to see him nestled in a cocoon of blankets. His exhaustion was written on his face, yet there was a noticeable improvement in his appearance. The layer of grime and perspiration that had clung to his skin was now gone, you knew he had to feel somewhat refreshed.

You cautiously stepped into the room and made your way towards him, acutely aware of how his body tensed at your approach. In response to your closer proximity, he burrowed deeper into the thick comforter that enveloped him, seeking refuge from your presence.

A soft, reassuring sound escaped your lips as you placed a water bottle within his reach. As you anticipated, he remained motionless under the comforter, offering no acknowledgment of your thoughtful action. He stayed hidden beneath the layers of fabric, like a child seeking shelter from imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Get some rest, Soldat..." you whispered gently, your voice barely above a murmur. "I'll be down in the other room if you need anything. Don't hesitate to call for me, even for the smallest thing." With that reassurance, you slowly stood back up and turned to walk out. A faint noise suddenly caught your attention, causing you to pause mid-step.

The gentle rustling of the comforter drew your gaze back towards the floor, curiosity piquing your interest. The soldier cautiously peeked out from under the blanket's edge. His tired, weary eyes met your inquisitive ones, there was a beat of silence.

"Спасибо," the soldier rasped out, his voice meek and slightly hoarse from disuse, but still loud enough for you to hear clearly.

"You're welcome..."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover images from Pinterest. I do not claim them as my own.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier x you #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan bucky barnes #captain america the winter soldier #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #blythewrites⛓

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plutosunshine · 2 months ago

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PLUTO: your personal power

How to find your personal transformative power? Of course, we should look at the Pluto. Pluto is the place where the power of transformation starts. The house it resides in can show us how we can open up our strengths and let them transform our lives. I will look into the Pluto in the houses to answer that question. Of course, there are others placements that show power and strength but I would like to dive deep into the Pluto world. After all, the name of my blog is Plutosunshine!

Also, for those reading this post I offer to dig deep into your Pluto placement (and how it connects with the chart) to know what your personal power is — just 15 dollars. Don’t miss that opportunity!

Pluto in the 1st house

Having Pluto in the 1st house means you're someone who's meant to transform — again and again. You're not here to stay the same or follow the status quo. There's a deep intensity to you, something people can feel even if you don't say much. You've probably noticed that people are drawn to you, or maybe even a little intimidated, and you might not always understand why. That's Pluto — it gives off a powerful, magnetic energy.

To tap into your transformative power, start by really embracing change, even when it feels uncomfortable or chaotic. Life will probably push you through a lot of big shifts — but each one is meant to strip away what's false and bring you closer to your most authentic self. You grow stronger every time you let go of what no longer fits.

Another key part of your power is learning to accept your shadow side — those parts of you that feel too intense, emotional, or misunderstood. The more you own those parts instead of hiding them, the more powerful and grounded you become. Your depth is a gift, not a weakness.

You're also here to be unapologetically real. You don't need to shrink yourself to make others feel at ease. When you walk into a room fully being yourself, people feel your presence. That's part of your impact — you shift the energy just by being there.

Because you're wired to go deep, you're also someone who can heal. When you've worked through your own stuff, you naturally become a guide for others, whether you realize it or not. Your story, your intensity, your ability to rise again — all of that inspires people around you.

Pluto in the 2nd house

Pluto in the 2nd house is all about deep transformation around money, self-worth, values, and control — especially when it comes to your relationship with security and stability.

You’re not the type who just wants to "make money" in a surface-level way. You want to own your power, and for you, money, resources, and possessions can feel like a way to have control over your life. But here’s the thing — Pluto brings transformation through loss and rebirth. So throughout life, you might experience times where you lose something important (money, a job, stability), only to rebuild from the ground up and come back even stronger.

This placement teaches you that real power doesn’t come from what you have — it comes from who you are without it. Once you figure that out, you become unstoppable. You learn how to generate your own value, your own security, and build wealth in a way that feels deeply empowering and aligned with your soul.

There’s also this deep drive to get to the truth of things. You’re not into fluff. You want to know what’s real, what lasts, and what holds value — whether that’s in relationships, finances, or your own self-worth. You might have a talent for seeing through superficial success and knowing what’s truly valuable underneath.

And yeah, there can be some control issues here too — either clinging too tightly to money and material stuff out of fear, or swinging the other way and rejecting it completely. Finding balance is key. You’re meant to learn how to hold power without letting it control you.

At your best, you can become someone who transforms not only your own financial reality but also helps others do the same. You could be amazing at healing people’s money mindset, uncovering hidden talents, or building something valuable from scratch.

Pluto in the 3rd house

Pluto in the 3rd house? That’s deep, powerful stuff when it comes to your mind, communication, and how you process and share information.

You don’t do small talk. You crave real conversations — the kind that cut through the surface and get to the heart of things. When you speak, there’s often a weight to your words. You might not say much unless it matters, but when you do speak? People listen. There's something magnetic in how you express yourself.

Your mind works like an x-ray machine — you see through the noise, the lies, the distractions. You’re probably very observant, possibly quiet at times, but you're always picking up on what's not being said. It’s like you’re tuned into the hidden motives or the emotional undercurrents in conversations.

This placement also points to a strong potential for mental transformation throughout your life. Maybe early on, you dealt with environments that felt intense, controlling, or even toxic — especially related to siblings, school, or how you were allowed to express yourself. But over time, you learn to reclaim your voice and your mind. And once you do? You become incredibly persuasive, powerful, and insightful.

There can also be this compulsive curiosity — like you need to figure out how things work, especially people’s minds or deeper truths. You’d probably be amazing at research, psychology, writing, even occult studies. Anything that lets you dive deep and expose what’s hidden.

But be mindful of how you use your words — because with Pluto here, your voice can be healing or destructive. You have the power to influence people’s thinking, to help them see things in a totally new way. So learning how to wield that power with intention and care is a big part of your journey.

Also — don’t be afraid to let go of old mental patterns. Pluto in the 3rd can hold on to ideas, thoughts, or inner narratives for too long. Transformation happens when you’re willing to challenge what you think you know and open up to deeper truths.

Pluto in the 4th house

Pluto in the 4th house hits deep — this one goes straight to the core of who you are beneath the surface. It’s about your emotional foundation, your family roots, your home life, and your inner world. And with Pluto here, none of that is light or simple.

You probably grew up in an environment that felt intense, secretive, or even emotionally heavy. Maybe there were power dynamics in the family, unspoken rules, or a feeling like you had to protect yourself or stay on high alert. Whatever the story is, your childhood likely shaped you in a big way — and not always in ways you could fully understand at the time.

This placement gives you emotional depth and inner strength that most people can’t even begin to comprehend. You feel things intensely, but you might not always show it on the outside. You’ve learned to guard your inner world, to protect your vulnerabilities. You might keep your true self hidden unless you really trust someone — and even then, it can take time.

One of your biggest transformations in life comes through healing your relationship with your past — your family, your upbringing, and your emotional wounds. You’re meant to dive into all of that, not avoid it. The more you face what’s buried, the more you reclaim your personal power.

You’re also someone who needs a home that feels like a sanctuary. A place where you can go deep, retreat, and fully be yourself. You're not into surface-level comfort — you want a space with soul. And once you’ve done the inner work, you might even be the kind of person who helps others heal emotionally or create a safe space for transformation.

Sometimes Pluto in the 4th brings up themes around control or fear of losing stability — like trying to control your environment or relationships just to feel safe. But real strength comes when you learn to trust yourself emotionally and let go of needing everything to be under your control.

Bottom line: You’re here to transform from the inside out. To face the shadows of the past, rise above them, and build a foundation that’s emotionally solid and truly yours.

Pluto in the 5th house

Pluto in the 5th house brings intensity, passion, and deep transformation to all things related to self-expression, creativity, romance, and even how you experience joy.

This placement gives you a powerful desire to create — not just in the artistic sense, but to put your whole soul into something and watch it come to life. Whether it’s art, writing, music, performance, business, or even how you love someone — you don’t do anything halfway. When you express yourself, it’s raw, real, and magnetic. People can feel that you're not just creating for fun — you're creating from your core.

Romance and love affairs? Yeah... those don’t stay light either. You go all in. Love for you is intense, consuming, and often transformative. You might attract partners who challenge you, awaken you, or force you to confront parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there. There can be power struggles or deep emotional entanglements, but they’re never boring — these relationships are meant to change you.

There’s also this undercurrent of craving significance. Not in an ego way, but in a “I need what I do and who I love to matter” kind of way. Casual doesn’t cut it. You want to feel alive, seen, and fully self-expressed. At the same time, you might fear losing control — over your creativity, your heart, or your sense of self — so you might hold back or keep certain passions hidden until you feel safe.

At your highest expression, you become someone who channels their creativity and passion in a way that moves others. You don’t just entertain or express — you transform through your art, your love, and your joy.

Pluto in the 6th house

Pluto in the 6th house is deep transformation through the day-to-day grind — work, routines, health, service, and how you manage your responsibilities. Sounds practical, right? But Pluto doesn’t do shallow, even in the 6th. This placement means you’re here to evolve through the details of life.

You don’t just “go to work” or “take care of your health” — you feel a powerful, almost obsessive pull to do things well, to be in control of your environment, your workflow, and your body. You might be super focused on productivity, efficiency, or constantly improving yourself. And yeah, there can be perfectionist vibes here — because deep down, you may feel like control equals safety.

At some point in life, though, Pluto will challenge that mindset. There might be times when you burn out, get sick, or feel like your entire daily structure has to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch. That’s Pluto pushing you to transform how you handle stress, self-discipline, and your physical well-being.

You may also attract intense work situations — environments where power dynamics, manipulation, or control issues come into play. But that’s not random. These experiences help you learn how to stand in your own power without getting caught in toxic patterns.

Health-wise, this placement often calls for deep healing, not just physically, but emotionally and energetically. Your body can hold onto stress or emotional baggage, so it's important to pay attention to the root of any imbalances, not just the symptoms. You might even be drawn to alternative or transformative healing methods — like detoxing, shadow work, or energy healing — anything that helps cleanse from the inside out.

You have the potential to be a powerful healer, organizer, or problem-solver — especially once you’ve done the inner work. People may come to you because they sense you don’t just “fix” things — you transform them.

Pluto in the 7th house

Pluto in the 7th house? Oof — this is a powerful one when it comes to relationships. You're not here for light, casual connections. You're here to dive deep, to merge, and to transform through the people you’re closest to.

The 7th house rules partnerships — romantic, business, close one-on-one connections — and with Pluto sitting there, those relationships are often intense, magnetic, and sometimes... a little messy. Power struggles, obsession, deep attraction, and control issues can all show up at some point in your life. But it’s not to punish you — it’s to teach you how to find your own power within relationships, not through them.

You might attract partners who are intense, mysterious, or controlling — or you could be the one holding the reins. Either way, your relationships aren’t surface-level. They shake you, challenge you, and force you to grow. You may even go through major relationship breakdowns that feel like emotional death and rebirth experiences. But with every one, you come out stronger and more self-aware.

There’s also a theme here around learning to balance power — not giving yours away to please others, but also not trying to dominate or fix them. Pluto in the 7th is about finding equal, transformative partnerships — ones where both people grow, evolve, and bring out the deeper layers of each other’s truth.

You're someone who can’t fake connection. You crave realness, loyalty, soul-bonded intensity. When you're in a relationship that feels safe and aligned, you become incredibly loyal, protective, and powerful as a partner. You might even help others face their shadows or break their own patterns — just by being in their life.

If you haven’t already, you'll likely go through at least one life-altering relationship that shifts everything you thought you knew about love and partnership. And that relationship (even if it doesn’t last) will unlock a whole new level of personal power.

Pluto in the 8th house

Pluto in the 8th house is straight-up next-level deep — like, soul-level transformation kind of deep. This is Pluto in its home, so if you have this placement, you’re basically carrying intense, raw, psychic energy that most people can’t even begin to understand. You’re not here to live on the surface — you’re here to die and be reborn, over and over, emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically.

This placement gives you a natural connection to the hidden, the taboo, the unseen. You’re drawn to topics most people shy away from: death, rebirth, sex, trauma, power, energy, mysticism, the subconscious. You might have a fascination with psychology, occult stuff, healing, or even money that comes from others (like inheritances, shared resources, investments, etc.).

Emotionally, you feel things with intensity — but you don’t always show it. You’re probably very private, maybe even secretive, because you don’t trust easily. You know how messy people can be under the mask, and you’re not about to hand your soul over unless someone’s earned it. And when you do open up? It’s deep, consuming, life-changing love. No in-between.

With Pluto here, life will likely push you into situations where you’re forced to let go — of control, of attachments, of the idea that you can protect yourself from pain. It may come through relationships, loss, betrayal, or deep emotional experiences that shake you. But through those experiences, you unlock your true power — the kind that comes from facing the dark and surviving it.

There may also be a natural ability to help others through their own transformations. You could be a guide, a healer, a counselor — or just someone whose presence alone makes people confront their shadows and grow. You're not afraid of darkness — you work with it.

If you're not consciously working with this energy, it can come out sideways — jealousy, emotional control, fear of betrayal, or power struggles. But once you own it? You become a force. Like a phoenix that rises from the ashes every damn time.

Pluto in the 9th house

Pluto in the 9th house? Now that’s the placement of a truth-seeker, a belief-breaker, and someone who’s here to completely transform their worldview over the course of their life.

You’re not interested in surface-level knowledge or blindly following what you’ve been taught. You want to dig deep, uncover hidden truths, and challenge the systems — religion, philosophy, culture, education — anything that tells you “this is how it is.” Your mind is built to go beyond that. You want to know — not just believe — and that desire can lead you to explore some seriously deep or even taboo topics.

There’s often a powerful transformation that happens through travel, higher education, or spiritual awakening. It might start with questioning what you were raised to believe. Maybe you were taught one version of the truth growing up — and at some point, it just didn��t fit anymore. So you broke away, maybe even dramatically, and went on your own journey to find what’s real for you.

People with Pluto in the 9th are often drawn to the occult, metaphysics, esoteric studies, psychology, philosophy, or anything that challenges traditional thinking. You might have the soul of a philosopher, teacher, mystic, or rebel scholar — someone who doesn’t just accept ideas but dissects them, transforms them, and helps others do the same.

You also have this intensity when it comes to your personal truth. Once you believe in something, you believe it with everything in you. But part of your growth is learning that beliefs can evolve — that clinging too hard to one “truth” can become its own kind of prison.

You could be a powerful teacher or guide, especially when it comes to helping others see beyond their limits. Your words, your perspective, your insight? It can change people’s lives. But first, you’ve gotta go through your own journey of death and rebirth — mentally, spiritually, even culturally.

Pluto in the 10th house

Now that’s a powerhouse placement. You’re here to transform the world through your presence, your ambition, and the legacy you leave behind. There’s something magnetic about the way you move in the world — even if you’re not loud about it, people feel your intensity.

The 10th house is about career, reputation, public image, and authority — and Pluto brings transformation, control, and raw power to all of it. You’re not just here to “have a job.” You’re here to own your path, to rise to the top of whatever field you’re in, and to make an impact. Even if it takes time, you’re wired to build something lasting, and you won’t stop until you do.

That said, it’s rarely a straight shot to success. With Pluto here, you might go through some serious ups and downs with your career or public identity. There could be major shifts — like climbing the ladder, crashing hard, and rising from the ashes even stronger. You learn through these experiences how to let go of old versions of yourself and step into something more powerful each time.

You might also experience intense dynamics with authority figures — bosses, parents, institutions — where control and power play a huge role. Maybe you resist being controlled, or maybe you’ve had to wrestle with your own need to be the one in control. Either way, you're here to redefine what power looks like — for yourself and others.

People might project their expectations or fears onto you because you have a commanding energy. Whether you realize it or not, others see you as someone who’s meant for big things. That can be intimidating, but it’s also your edge. Once you stop trying to blend in and start owning that you're a natural leader or influencer, things shift.

You’re here to lead by transforming systems, not just following them. That could mean building a business, changing an industry, or becoming the kind of authority figure you wish you'd had. Legacy matters to you — not in a flashy way, but in a deep, lasting way. You want your work to mean something.

Pluto in the 11th house

Pluto in the 11th house is next-level transformation through your connections with the collective — friendships, communities, social movements, and your long-term vision for the future. This is the placement of someone who’s here to shake up the status quo and change the system from the inside out.

You’re not here to just “fit in.” You’re here to find your soul tribe — people who are deep, real, and ready to evolve with you. Superficial social scenes? Nah, that’s not your vibe. You crave connections that have meaning, purpose, and maybe even a little intensity. In fact, your friendships might go through some heavy shifts over time — people coming and going, betrayals, loyalty tests, or just straight-up energetic mismatches that force you to level up.

And the people you do keep around? They can be powerful allies. You’re someone who can attract influential or deeply transformative individuals into your life — and your presence can do the same for them. You help others grow just by being real and pushing them to look deeper at themselves and the world.

This placement also gives you a serious obsession (in a good way) with your vision for the future. You want to create change — whether it’s through activism, innovation, spiritual work, art, or just breaking old systems that don’t serve people anymore. There’s a revolutionary vibe to you, like you’re lowkey always scanning society for what needs to die so something better can be built in its place.

Sometimes you might feel like an outsider, especially if your ideas are too "much" for the people around you. But that's part of your journey — learning to stand strong in your truth and finding or building communities that get it.

There can also be control themes around groups or social dynamics. Maybe you want to lead or resist being led. Maybe you’re drawn to secret or exclusive groups. Or maybe you've felt used or overlooked in social circles. But the key is learning how to hold power with others, not over them.

Bottom line: you're here to redefine what community and collaboration look like — and your influence can ripple out way further than you think.

Pluto in the 12th house

Pluto in the 12th house is some of the most powerful, mysterious, and spiritually transformative energy you can have in a birth chart. This is deep, behind-the-scenes Pluto — the kind that works in the unconscious, the soul, the hidden realms most people avoid or don’t even realize exist. If you have this placement, you’re not just on a life journey… you’re on a soul mission.

With Pluto here, you’re naturally tuned in to the invisible — dreams, symbols, energy, vibes, emotions that have no words. You might pick up on other people’s moods without trying, or feel things that others can’t explain. It’s not always easy — because you're basically carrying the emotional weight of not just yourself, but often of others or even collective pain.

There’s often a strong pull toward mysticism, spirituality, psychology, or healing. You may have had early life experiences that were deeply emotional, confusing, or that forced you inward — maybe trauma, isolation, or feeling misunderstood. But this inner world you were pushed into? It’s where your power lives. You're here to transform through surrender, trust, and the kind of healing that doesn’t happen on the surface.

This placement can sometimes make you feel like there’s something hidden within you — like a power you’re not fully sure how to access. But the more you explore your subconscious, your dreams, or your spiritual path, the more that power starts to reveal itself.

There can be periods of emotional intensity, shadow work, or even a sense of self-sabotage that you have to confront. You might find that things you’ve repressed or avoided emotionally come up in powerful waves — but facing them head-on is where your transformation happens.

You may also have a natural gift for healing, especially through spiritual or energetic means. You could be a powerful guide for others — even if it's quiet, behind-the-scenes, or unspoken. People might come to you without knowing why, drawn to your energy, your calm depth, your ability to hold space for things most people can’t.

Pluto in the 12th is like a cosmic detox — you're here to release what isn't yours, to rise through the shadows, and to awaken others by doing your own inner work.

#astrology #astro #natal chart #astro observations #birth chart #astro notes #astrology posts #zodiac #Pluto #Pluto in the houses

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keferon · 3 months ago

Note

Two Peas in a Pod: part 2/?

*slips another piece into your mailbox*

_____________________

Jazz was still feeling a little woozy from his donation in the dark hours of the morning. Blaster had breakfast changed from the usual to something that felt more like a treat, probably a reward for his good behaviour, and to help his body recover. Fish heavy in proteins, fat, all that healthy stuff. Something that normally he would have tried to savour, but he wolfed it down from excitement. Too many questions ran through his head, and most he couldn't bring himself to voice.

The mer, the mer would pull through. Blaster told him about how he had saved their life with his blood. Praised him high and low. Because Blaster knew how Jazz felt about seeing blood, about how hard blood tests were for him, and that was only a tiny vial. Not three big bags of it. Jazz hadn't seen how much they had taken – because he had kept his eye closed until they left in a hurry –, and hearing about it made him dizzy for other reasons, but he honestly felt real proud of himself.

It was a new feeling, different from other moments of pride – like when he figured out the lock codes. Yeah, this gave him butterflies and the drive to help more.

Blaster laughed when Jazz offered that the vets could take more if the other mer needed it. His handler didn't think it would be, but he would pass it on to the vet team.

Jazz's morning checks were a little off, expected with having a little less fluids and feeling off-balance, but it was kept short and quick. Blaster told him that if he learned anything more, he'd tell him next time he came by and then hurried back down to the staff area. Blaster was needed elsewhere, understandably as there weren't many mer experts here, though he did leave Jazz his waterproof stereo if he wanted to play some of his favourites.

But, the orca mer was far too busy causing a whirlpool from the laps he was swimming. He was too excited to sit still, and embarrassment be damned he started practising old vocals. He didn't remember much of his mother tongue, and he was pretty sure that his pronunciation was off, that or had one hell of an accent. Echo-speech was even more rusty. And once he had gone over and over what he could recall, Jazz began to really worry. A few sentences and handful or so of words was all he had? Gods, I hope I can at least make a decent first impression. Blaster said they were just like me, so hopefully, that will give me some starting points.

More than he cared to count, Jazz would swim into the shallow waters of the medical bay and hope to see something through that window. But no one ever came close enough for him to hear any news of the mer. He couldn't even see anything on his radar, wherever they had done treatment, it wasn't in the hospital ward. It almost felt like he was being purposely kept in the dark.

And just when Jazz was starting to worry that things had taken a bad turn, a group of staff turned up around four pm. He wasn't able to ask any questions, or rather they refused to answer. Shooing him away as they got to work. Starting with closing the gate to the bay to 'keep him out'. Jazz could easily climb those walls, but that wasn't the point. Even if the gate window was closed, he could pick up that they were setting up the water hammock. But it wasn't until he heard the cautionary beeping of the hoist lift approaching that it dawned on him – the mer was coming. Now.

"Jazz," Blaster called, "… Jazz," he blew the training whistle and finally got his mer's attention. "Stop pacing and get over here."

"But–" Jazz looked back longingly up the wall.

"Jazz," his tone dropped to a firm one, and Jazz begrudgingly swam over to the pier. The human crouched and made sure that they held eye contact before he spoke. "I need you to promise me that you will stay in your enclosure."

He sunk a little, trying to play into his cuteness, but being far too anxious to really pull it off. "What do you mean?"

"Jazz," now warning him. Blaster knew full well that he was more than capable of getting into or out of places he shouldn't, bloody Houdini mermaid, "this is serious. Things are going well, we want to keep it that way. Which means keeping things calm and feeling safe. You're excited, I get it, we all are. But in about an hour, they'll be waking up and – from past experience seen with wild Mers – they will likely freak out. And the last thing we need is you hauling your tail over that wall and making things worse. Understand?"

The beeping was louder how and the hiss of hydraulics caused Jazz to look up. The arm of the lift was visible over the wall. They're here!

"Jazz," Blaster hopelessly called for his attention once more.

Within moments, a massive bundle was carefully raised, the staff calling out and coordinating. Jazz's gaze was fixed on the black and white fluke poking out, it was the only part of them he could see, and his heart began to race. Once they became hidden by the wall again, Jazz moved back to pacing by the gate without even thinking. Listening to people hopping into the water to unstrap the mer and call back n' forth. "Careful, careful! – Watch the head! – Someone give me a hand over here! – We're clear on this side! – Keep the head up!"

Really starting to sound like a broken record, Blaster chirped the whistle and called out to him again. The expression he wore must have been pretty pitiful because the look on Blaster's face dropped. "If I open the view port… will you promise me that you will wait, that you will stay in your enclosure?"

"I promise," he answered hastily, placing his hands on the gate, over the panel that would slide open.

"And that you will wait until everything is in the clear, till the staff come to oversee the integration. There will be no rushing things and no asking staff when we will open the gate."

"I promise," he repeated, trying not to beg.

Satisfied, Blaster pulled out his radio, "Blaster to Control; when the team is out of the Mer enclosure's medical bay, open the view port. Jazz's stress is mounting without a visual."

"Can do," came a quick reply.

Though, opening the panel was not. Several minutes went by, the hoist had cleared out, and much of the staff had returned to their other duties. Only two remained double-checking the mer's breathing and pulse. The moment that the last of them left, Jazz heard the lock disengage, and he retracted his hands as the panel shifted and began to slide open. The window was too small to get more than his hand – maybe up to his elbow if he wanted to push it – through, and sat just at water level– any movement sending water hopping to either side. But it gave him a clear view of the surface area inside.

Oh.

Oh. Jazz stopped breathing. While the mer's body was mostly supported by the fabric of the hammock, cradling them on their side, effectively hiding most of them from Jazz's angle. Propped up on a soft floating platform was the mer's head, face towards the gate. Sharp features and elegantly shaped finials, with flattering lines of their markings complimenting the peaceful expression as they slept. The butterflies from earlier came back stronger than ever, his heart thundering as words fumbled from Jazz's lips, "he's beautiful…"

_____________________

-GLC

Orca Prowl really is just-- too fucking pretty, omg, I'm living through Jazz in this moment like when I first saw your designs of him.

I'm more than happy to continue writing for you, you bring me so much joy. I screamed when I saw how much you liked it. If you have any requests you would like me to add to the story, leave it in the tags or comments ♡ I now plan to continue until the tsunami and a bit afterwards, maybe more, we'll see~

Upd: There is a next part!

Oh. MY GOD. OKAY ALRIGHT OKAY ALRIGHT OKA

I'M ABOUT TO START PACING IN CIRCLES JUST LIKE JAZZ OVER HERE KDLCNFJFLFB PL E A S E THIS IS SO GOOD. The tension?? You can fucking TASTE it IT'S SO GREAT GLC I LOVE YOU

The way it all starts at night and then you (as a reader) have all this additional time to boil in your anticipation?? So fucking great. Like you can really feel how little power Jazz has over the wholse situation. The plot is moving but he doesn't have any saying in it. Well. Yet heheh

Anyway haha. Im normal and I made some art>:D

#apocalyptic ponyo #jazzprowl #jazz #prowl #blaster #ponyo jp writing #GLC #merformers #maccadam #transformers #damn imagine living your whole life with stupid dolphins and pretty much equally stupid captive merfolks #and then meeting a guy with an Engineering degree #must be wild~~~~#Wait I just realized. Those workers never had any experience with sapient merfolks besides Jazz #they all are like “he will freak out” but their understanding is based mostly on animals and captive mers #and those tend to become VERY stressed if they suddenly wake up in some new strange environment and discover they have a company #while with Prowl it would be the exact opposite I imagine??? omg. After all the time he was kept in those tiny ass temporary pools???#having no company besides humans who are constantly poking him and staring at him and making him take their weird medication an-#-d sometimes drugs if he acts aggressively?#like after all this shit???#I have a feeling he would see/hear other orca nearby and his first initial reaction would be OH THANK FUCK there's a company #orcas are very VERY social after all~#I got carried away haha. I LOVE THE FIC SO MUCH #MUAH #this is freaking amazing #.....damn okAY one more thought I just had #there's only a small window for them to look at each other #Prowl wouldn't properly see Jazz ehehehjfkfnfmfj. He would sorta kinda see him right. But then he would ACTUALLY look at him. like.#for the first time see his entire body? and Jazz looks SO wrong #Okay I'm done spamming haha

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

From Eden | Chapter Four (4/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety. A glimpse into a therapy session. Mentions of racing accidents. A tiny bit of angst, and then lots of fluffiness.

Notes — Yes. It happens. It finally happens. Our babies MEET. Also: I’m spoiling you all with these updates, but I’m writing like a mad woman atm. I wrote 3/4 of this chapter after work today.

Oscar’s face filled her screen, his hair mussed, white t-shirt hanging loose around his neck. The hotel lamp behind him cast a soft golden glow, and his voice was low and tired when he said, “Hey.”

Francesca smiled without meaning to, her laptop perched on her thighs and a mug balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. “Hey. You sound half-asleep.”

He shrugged one shoulder, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m not. Just tired. Long day.”

She hummed, shifting her laptop slightly. “You didn’t have to call me tonight. I know you’ve got another early start tomorrow.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question.

They fell into a lull, not uncomfortable. Oscar reached for something offscreen — probably a bottle of water — while Francesca scrolled back through the rough notes she’d been making for her book. Her screen glowed faintly, a scattered mess of plot threads, character traits, and one lonely bullet point that just said: Let them kiss, eventually.

“What are you working on?” Oscar asked, his voice soft, easy. His thumb rested against his cheek as he watched her like she was the most interesting thing on screen—not whatever was playing on Netflix in the background.

Francesca laughed quietly, the sound half-nervous, half-flattered. Her neck flushed warm. “The outline. For the book.”

“Ah, yes. The very-big-deal-but-trying-to-play-it-cool publisher thing.” His grin was lopsided and teasing, but his eyes were full of something else — something that made her stomach flutter. She’d told him about it the second Katie had left, unable to keep it to herself. That had been two weeks ago.

“Have you figured out the, uh, plot yet?” he asked, genuine curiosity softening the teasing.

“Sort of,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “It’s messy right now. But I keep thinking about how to write two people who don’t make sense on paper. Like — different lives, different worlds. But they find this… perfect little space where things make sense. With each other.”

Oscar’s eyes held hers for a moment, steady. “That sounds good. Familiar.”

She blushed, immediately looked back at her screen. “It’s just a first draft. I probably won’t like it by next week.”

He grinned. “Can I be the first to read it?”

“You don’t even read.” She shot back.

“I’d read anything if you were the one to write it.”

Francesca tried to hide the way her breath caught, but it was pointless — the screen was too intimate. Too real.

Oscar must have noticed. Instead of pushing, he leaned back against the headboard, stretching out those long limbs. “You’ve got your book. I’ve got my races. We’re both booked and busy for the next few months, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “But… it feels a little less overwhelming when I’m talking to you.”

His brows lifted — like he hadn’t expected her to say that out loud.

She bit her lip. “Too much?” She was always second-guessing what she should and shouldn’t say to him. This whole getting to know each other while also maybe-flirting thing was still very new to her.

“No,” he said, his voice low, warm, and firmer than usual. “Not even a little.”

The screen flickered slightly as he shifted beneath the covers, yawning into his shoulder. “You keep working. I’m just gonna close my eyes and listen to you type. Don’t mind me.”

Utterly ridiculous.

She watched him through the screen, his face half-shadowed in the low hotel light, eyes still closed. For a minute, she just listened to the sound of his breathing, even and slow.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she asked — quietly, like the question was delicate in her mouth, “If we’re both this busy… how are we going to make it work? The — uh — us meeting thing…”

Oscar’s eyes opened, slow and steady. He looked right at her — really looked. All the sleepiness disappeared in an instant.

“When you’re ready,” he said, voice steady and certain. “When you say the word — I’ll make it happen, Francesca.”

Francesca swallowed. “Even if it’s… months from now?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “Next week, six months. Next year.” He stressed the words. “When you’re ready, I’ll find the time. I’ll show up. I’ll be there.”

She blinked, unsure what to say, a warmth blooming somewhere deep in her chest. No one had ever spoken to her like that — like effort was the bare minimum, like she was worth rearranging a life for.

He smiled then, softer now. “You’re not something I’m just squeezing in whenever I have a spare five minutes, Francesca.”

She lowered her gaze to her laptop screen, biting back a ridiculous smile. “You really know how to mess with a girl’s focus, Piastri.”

His laugh was quiet, happy. “Good.”

—

Francesca sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop propped up on a stack of pillows. Sunlight filtered through the half-open curtains, painting soft, warm streaks across her duvet. Dr. Kapoor’s face filled the screen, serene and steady as always.

“You mentioned last time that you were ready to try something new,” she said gently, “something uncomfortable.”

Francesca nodded, fingers toying with the edge of the pillow she was hugging to her stomach. “Yeah,” she said. “I went for this, uh, stupid little walk. Literally just to the postbox at the end of my street and then straight back.”

Dr. Kapoor smiled. “A walk isn’t stupid.”

“No,” Francesca agreed with a small huff, “but it was hard. That’s what’s stupid.” She paused, then added, “I was out of the flat for ten minutes, maybe. No headphones. I looked at people.” Her voice dropped slightly, like saying it too loudly might unravel the fragile progress she’d made. “I didn’t turn around early. I wasn’t sick in my neighbours bush.”

Dr. Kapoor’s expression softened. “That’s a big deal, Francesca. How did you feel afterwards, once you got home?”

“Proud,” she admitted, wringing her hands together. “Also like I might never do it again.”

She laughed lightly. “You’ll do it again. Pride is a very strong motivator.”

Francesca hummed. “I journaled after. Like we talked about.”

“And what did you write?”

“That I was scared,” she said, looking down. “And I didn’t die. And I didn’t need anyone to come get me. I did it alone. It felt… weird. Good weird. Kind of.”

There was a long pause as Dr. Kapoor took that in. “That’s a great self-reflection. Honest.”

Francesca stared at a little chip in her nail polish. “I have spent years waiting for things to just magically get easier,” she said eventually. “Like one day, I’d wake up and it just wouldn’t be hard anymore. But that’s not going to happen, is it? Not even when I’m taking medication.”

“No,” Dr. Kapoor said, not unkindly. “It won’t. Not like that.”

The lump in Francesca’s throat tightened, but she nodded. She didn’t cry. That was something.

“Do you want to try something bigger this week?” Dr. Kapoor asked.

Francesca’s eyes flicked to the corner of the screen, to her own pale reflection. “Define bigger.”

“How would you feel about a short café visit? Ten minutes. Order something. Sit alone.”

Francesca blanched. “Oh god.”

“Trying is the goal,” Dr. Kapoor said warmly. “Not perfection. Not comfort. Just the attempt. You can always walk to the cafe and then go straight home. You could get a to-go drink. Or you could sit inside and just let yourself take up the space that you’re entitled to.”

Francesca gave a little shrug. “Would it be cheating if I wore my headphones and took a book with me?”

“Not cheating,” her therapist assured her. “That’s a very common coping mechanism. Just don’t let yourself disappear into it. Try to take notice of the world around you, too.”

She managed a smile. It was small, but real. “Okay. Ten minutes. Book optional.”

Dr. Kapoor’s voice gentled again. “Is there anything else that you’d like to talk about?”

Francesca hesitated. Her thumb ran over the stitching on the pillow in slow, nervous circles. “I said yes to doing something,” she said finally. “To… meet someone new. Not soon, but eventually. I want to be braver by then.”

There was a quiet moment between them.

“Why?” Dr. Kapoor asked gently. “What is making you think that you need to be braver than you already are?”

Francesca blinked, her breath leaving her in a soft exhale. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve already talked about the book deal.” Dr. Kapoor recalled. “Taking on a project like that has taken a lot of bravery. Going for your walk? That took a lot of bravery too.” She pointed out. “I think, perhaps, you’re underestimating how much better you’re doing recently, Francesca. Six months ago, you couldn’t walk out of your front-door.”

Francesca stared at a small smudge on the screen. “I don’t notice it, when I’m doing well.”

“Well,” Dr. Kapoor said, with an encouraging nod. “I’ve noticed it. I’m telling you. You are doing well.”

Francesca smiled.

—

Francesca was curled up on her sofa, half-watching the podium interviews and half-scrolling through messages when Oscar’s name lit up her phone screen.

She found that she was smiling before she even answered.

He looked exhausted, glowing with sweat — post-race adrenaline still clinging to him. His cap was backwards, damp curls sticking out at the edges. “Hey,” he said, eyes bright. “Did you see that overtake?”

Francesca laughed. “Crofty lost his mind, Osc.” She stared at him, feeling ridiculously fond. “Yeah. I saw.”

Oscar beamed. “Felt pretty good. Not gonna lie.”

“You looked like you were flying out there,” she told him, her voice light. “Literally, at some points. I don’t understand how you can go around corners so fast and not just, like… tip over or something.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah, only amateurs tip their cars on the apex.”

Francesca flushed. “Oh, shut up.”

There was a beat of silence, then his expression softened, dimples barely visible beneath the shadow of his cap. “Thanks for watching.”

She looked down, fingers tightening around her phone. “You don’t have to thank me. I like watching you.” She hesitated, then added with a small smile, “I might need to send a scathing email to Sky Sports, though. They don’t show you nearly enough on the main broadcast. I can’t deal with the onboard — makes me nauseous.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound curling around her ribs. “Yeah, I’d rather you didn’t ride onboard with me, honestly. If something happened—” He broke off suddenly, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked away like he’d said too much.

The air between them shifted.

Her stomach dropped. It was too easy to forget what he did. To pretend, for her own comfort, that it was safe. Controlled. Not dangerous.

She sucked in a slow breath, already feeling the panic creeping in at the edges. “I’ll call you later,” she said quickly, before he could say anything else. Before she could spiral.

Then she ended the call—like a coward.

—

The paddock buzzed with celebration after Ferrari’s victory, but Oscar barely noticed. He moved quickly, head down, nodding absently at a few crew members as he passed. Lando’s driver’s room door was half-shut, muffled music playing from inside.

Oscar knocked once, then let himself in.

Lando looked up from where he was sprawled on the small couch, a half-finished protein shake in hand. “Alright, mate,” he said. “Don’t you have some post-race debrief to be at?”

Oscar shut the door behind him. “I need to talk to you.”

Lando sat up, brows lifting. “Francesca?”

Oscar nodded once. He didn’t sit — just crossed the room and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “She hung up on me. We were talking after the race. I said something—about my onboard camera, how I didn’t want her watching it, just in case something ever happened. She went quiet. Said goodbye. Ended the call.”

Lando frowned. “You think you freaked her out?”

“I know I did.” Oscar dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s so easy to forget how not-normal this sport is to normal people.”

Lando set his drink down. “Right. I get that. She’ll probably get used to it though, yeah? I’ve had girlfriends freak out about it too, but once they realise how rare the big crashes are—”

“This isn’t like that,” Oscar cut in, quieter now. “She’s not just someone I met last weekend.” He hesitated, then added, “She’s got her stuff. Anxiety — a lot of it. She doesn’t really leave her flat much. But she’s trying. She’s been pushing herself and… I think I went too far with it.”

Lando was quiet, thoughtful for once. “Okay. Give her space. Let her process. But don’t vanish on her. Send her a message. Let her know you’re still here. Let her decide when to come back in.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. “It’d be so much easier if she liked F1.”

“She doesn’t need to like F1,” Lando said with a small, knowing smirk. “She likes you.”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turned toward the door, hand on the handle, then paused. “You ever think this job makes it impossible to have a normal relationship?”

“All the time,” Lando said, not even pretending otherwise. “But look at Max. Lewis. Charles. They’ve all figured it out. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Just means it’s possible.”

Oscar nodded once, not quite smiling, but something close. “Yeah. Alright.”

Then he left — already reaching for his phone.

—

iMessage — Oscar & Francesca

Oscar:

I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t even mean to say it. I’m so used to the people I care about being used to this stuff. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.

Francesca:

pls don’t say sorry. im the one who should be sorry. i shouldn’t have hung up. i just felt myself getting worked up and that’s embarrassing, lol. i felt silly for it

Oscar:

You’re not silly. I promise.

Francesca:

um. quick question. when is your next bit of time off?

Oscar:

Francesca:

i want you to come to london, osc

i need this to be real.

Oscar:

Wednesday?

Francesca:

which wednesday?

Oscar:

As in three days from now

That Wednesday

Francesca:

Oscar.

Oscar:

You said the words. No taking them back now.

Send me your address. Don’t overthink this.

I’ll call you in an hour, yeah? Just got a few more things to do before going back to the hotel

Francesca:

okay <3

—

iMessage — Francesca & Katie

Francesca: SOS actual sos mayday mayday girl down

Katie: …what happened did henry throw up on your laptop again

Francesca: OSCAR IS COMING TO LONDON TO MY FLAT ON WEDNESDAY AS IN. WEDNESDAY. IN THREE (3) DAYS. TO MY HOME. WHERE I LIVE.

Katie: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I AM CALMLY SCREAMING

Francesca: i said the words like an idiot “i want you to come to london, osc” WHO EVEN AM I

Katie: i’m so proud of you

Francesca: i just stood there staring at my mirror for 11 minutes trying to decide if i should buy new sheets WHAT IF HE THINKS MY PILLOWS ARE WEIRD or what if henry bites him or what if i bite him

Katie: … fran.

Francesca: not in like a weird way i just i’m spiraling

Katie: you’re going to be FINE you like him he likes you he’s coming because he wants to not because your pillowcases are perfectly crisp

Francesca: but they’re not though they’re old and faded and they have little stars on them

Katie: which is exactly the kind of thing a soft boy in love would find charming now breathe make your outline order yourself some new teabags clean the bathroom and maybe light a candle

Francesca: i am lighting twelve candles.

Katie: do not set your flat on fire before wednesday. he’s gonna fall in love with you, fran. just wait.

—

iMessage — Oscar & Hattie

Oscar: Can I ask you something without you being annoying about it

Hattie: no promises x

Oscar: How do you know when something is real Like Not a fling Not a distraction But like. A real thing

Hattie: oh boy do i need to sit down for this

Oscar: I’m being serious There’s this girl Francesca I think I’ve mentioned her?

Hattie: only every time we talk lol go on

Oscar: She asked me to come to London To see her Like, properly Not just texting or FaceTiming anymore And I said yes. I am going. Wednesday

Hattie: wait THIS Wednesday?? as in three days??

Oscar: That’s the one We’ve both been busy. And now suddenly it’s happening. And I’m… I don’t know Excited. Nervous. Like I want to be good for her I want to make it easy

Hattie: Oof You’ve got it bad huh

Oscar: I think so She doesn’t have an easy time with people Or places She struggles with stuff But she’s let me in. Slowly And I just keep thinking If she’s brave enough to try I don’t want her to ever regret it

Hattie: Wow Mum’s gonna lose her mind

Oscar: If you tell Mum before I do, I swear

Hattie: cross my heart but seriously you’re doing good and it is real because you care enough to ask all this just be gentle with her be yourself and don’t forget she has a cat

Oscar: I bought cat treats earlier Just in case

Hattie: I love that for you Let me know how it goes And if you panic and need someone to scream-text at, I’ll be on standby

Oscar: You’re a legend Thanks Hatt x

—

iMessage — Oscar & Lando

Oscar: So I’m going to London on Wednesday

Lando: ok? for what? media? sim?

Oscar: To see Francesca

Lando: ??? WAIT LIKE SEE HER IN PERSON??

Oscar: Yes Lando In person With my eyes

Lando: bro it’s SUNDAY how did we go from “she hung up on me” to “I’m flying to a whole other country” in less than 2 hours

Oscar: She asked me to Said she wants this to feel real I told her to send her address and I’d be there

Lando: who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated teammate

Oscar: Growth x

Lando: ngl i’m kind of proud but also slightly terrified like you know you’re in deep, right?

Oscar: I’m aware Does it show

Lando: mate you just casually dropped that you’re making international travel plans because a girl said “I need this to be real” yes. it shows.

Oscar: I don’t want to mess it up

Lando: just be yourself and try not to talk about tyres during dinner or whatever

Oscar: Copy that

Lando: also tell her i can’t wait to meet her bring her to a race. eventually. when she’s ready

Oscar: One step at a time But yeah We’d have to work something out for her. To make it possible

Lando: zac would sort something if u asked. i can always help out. she seems nice. worth it

Oscar: Thanks mate. She is

—

Francesca stood in the middle of her living room, clutching a half-damp cloth and staring blankly at the coffee table she’d already wiped down three times. Henry was perched on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily, unimpressed by the chemical smell in the air. She’d cracked one of the windows open for him.

“Okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Cool. This is better.”

The apartment smelled like fresh linen and lavender. She’d lit one of her aromatherapy candles — not a cheap supermarket one, but the fancy soy one she usually saved for special occasions or very bad days. The couch cushions had been fluffed. She’d washed her bedsheets, then panicked and washed them again. Just in case.

But now… now she didn’t know.

How was this supposed to go?

Was he going to… stay in her apartment? Or was he just coming for the afternoon? She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t said, and now it felt too late to bring it up without it being weird.

Would he eve want to stay with her?

Would that be too much? Too soon?

Francesca looked around her flat, and all she saw was a space that had, for a long time, been her sanctuary. Her bubble. Her little island of calm in a world that was too loud and too fast.

Letting someone into it — him, of all people — felt both right and utterly terrifying.

She moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and immediately closed it again. She didn’t even know what he liked. Was he a tea or coffee person? Did F1 drivers eat carbs? She only ate carbs.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, pressing her palms against her face. “It’s just Oscar.”

Still, her heart rattled against her ribs like it wanted to make a run for it.

She tried to shake it off — the nerves, the overthinking — but it clung to her like static. Taking a breath, she reminded herself of Katie’s advice from their last FaceTime: “Be more open. Talk to him when you start freaking out. He’ll appreciate it, and you’ll feel so much better for it.”

So, she reached for her phone. Hovered. Then typed — quickly, before she could spiral.

Francesca: hey, quick question. are you getting a hotel or do you want to stay with me? i totally don’t mind either way! just figuring out things out

Her phone buzzed twenty minutes later — just as she was elbow-deep in laundry, holding a long-sleeved shirt like it had personally wronged her.

She wiped her hands on her joggers and grabbed the phone, pulse jumping.

Oscar: Hey, just boarding now — sorry for the delay. I’ve got a hotel booked, don’t worry. You don't need to worry about anything, actually. I never want you to feel pressured. We can do whatever feels right, okay? I’m just happy I get to see you.

Francesca stared at the screen, a strange pressure building behind her eyes. Relief, affection, nerves — all of it bundled up into one messy emotion that made her want to both laugh and cry.

She sat down on the couch, Henry immediately hopping up beside her and kneading at her thigh with his murder mittens.

Francesca: okay. thank you for being so normal about this (normal in a good way, not like, boring) also i am definitely spiralling a bit but trying to be chill about it. so you might be on your way to meet a full-blown anxious ghost x

Oscar: Lol You could be an actual ghost and I’d still like you I’ll text when I land x

She set her phone down again — more gently this time — and pushed down a girlish squeal.

—

Her phone rang again not long after Oscar’s message. She almost didn’t check it before answering — assuming it was Katie, maybe — but when she glanced at the screen and saw “Izzy (ugh)", her stomach sank.

She hesitated, thumb hovering. Then, stupidly, she answered.

“Francesca,” came the clipped voice, already laced with tension. “Mum wants to know if you’re going to bother coming in August, or if we should just stop asking.”

“I— I already told you that I probably won’t be able to make it,” Francesca said, already shrinking into herself.

Izzy sighed like she was exhausted. “It’s just rude, you know? You can’t keep isolating yourself and expecting everyone else to keep reaching out. I feel like we’re making all of the effort.”

Francesca said nothing.

“And honestly,” her sister continued, “you've turned yourself into some kind of influencer, and you post videos of yourself and pictures to thousands of people, but you can’t even make the effort to get over yourself and come to see us. Mum thinks you hate her.”

She felt the old heat behind her eyes, the way it always came — fast and uninvited. “What? No. Of course I don’t hate her. I’m just… I’m doing my best here, Izzy.”

“That’s not good enough forever, you know.”

The call ended five minutes later. It might as well have been one long exhale of shame.

Francesca sat for a while on the floor by the laundry basket, arms curled around her knees, trying not to cry. But Henry came to her again, head-butting her shin softly. And then she remembered: Oscar. On a plane, coming to see her. Choosing her. Wanting this.

She got up.

She wiped her face.

She washed her hands and re-tied her hair and changed into clean joggers. Then she took a deep breath and said to the empty flat, “he doesn’t get to meet that version of me today.”

Because maybe she couldn’t make her family understand her. But maybe she didn’t need to, not when someone else already seemed to — and liked her despite it all.

—

iMessage — Katie & Francesca

Katie: Hey, just checking in. How’s the heart rate? Has he landed yet??

Francesca: no idea. i think so? maybe? i’ve stress-cleaned everything. henry thinks i’m possessed or smth. also my sister called. so that was fun! but i’m… okay. i think. maybe.

Katie: Oh, babe. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want me to say mean things about Izzy until you smile?

Francesca: i think i just needed to say it out loud to someone who gets it. i don’t want him to walk in and think i’m this emotional swamp of a person.

Katie: First of all, he won’t. Second of all, you’re allowed to be a little bit of a swamp. He likes you anyway. Third… you’re doing great. I’m so proud of you. Really.

Francesca: thank you okay. i’m gonna go stare at the door like a weirdo now

Katie: You got this ❤️ Call me later and tell me everything, okay? Even the awkward stuff.

Francesca: of course

—

She heard the lift *ding* before she heard the knock.

The soft sound that made her stomach lurch.

Henry, traitorous and uninterested, didn’t even lift his head from the sunspot on the carpet.

Francesca stood in the middle of the living room, palms damp, jumper slightly too warm, and heart beating hard enough to echo.

Three gentle knocks. Measured. Like he wasn’t sure how loud to be.

She walked to the door before she could psych herself out.

And there he was.

Oscar, in a hoodie and a pair of loose sweatpants, hair slightly flattened and one hand gripping the handle of a duffle bag. He looked a little tired, a little travel-worn, and entirely too good.

He smiled, soft and a little unsure. “Hi, beautiful girl.”

She opened the door wider. “Hi.”

They stared at each other for a beat longer than necessary, until Oscar let out a breath and stepped inside. He didn’t touch her right away — just looked at her with that same warm focus she’d seen through every FaceTime screen.

“I didn’t know if I should hug you or—”

She stepped into him before he could finish, arms winding around his middle. He didn’t hesitate then — his duffle bag hit the floor and his strong arms encircled around her, sturdy and steady and real. She could feel his heart through his hoodie, fast like hers.

“Thanks for coming,” she mumbled, her voice catching.

He smiled into her hair, his hold on her tightening, and for a brief moment, she wondered how inappropriate it would be to ask him to never, ever let her go. “Thanks for letting me in.” He mumbled.

They stayed there, tangled in the doorway, until Henry finally meowed in protest — as if to say shut the door, it’s cold — and Francesca laughed softly against his shoulder.

CHAPTER FIVE

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darkstaria · 11 months ago

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Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal AU.

Chapter 4:

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 5.

This chapter is brought to you by myyyyyyy🎉birthday🎉 woohoo 🥳 I hath aged

It's a little bit shorter, but I mean come on it's a unique chapter soooo it's cool guys I swear

Lots more Batfam content this time, albeit Tim centric. I'll balance it out in the future I swear! Also it's still platonic, but you could probably get a romantic reading from this a lil bit if you try

Taglist: @moonchild-artemisdaughter @jjsmeowthie @madine11-blog @xxrougefangxx @hadesnewpersephone @neerathebrightstar @mel-star636 @jaythes1mp @rosecentury @lov3vivian @gaozorous-rex-blog @victoria1676 @vrsin @silverklaus @ryukyuin @kurai-hono-blog @thisisafish123 @isawyourbrowserhistory @ain-t-no-way-bsfr @realifezompire @lunaluz432 @nickey-diano @sukiiluvs @sara0055 @alleakimlala @kdidgg @paperhermits @lavender-moony @alishii @emmbny @sirenetheblogger @fantasy-angelo @andrasia @vinnvinnvintage @nyra-42 @armystaysatnct @beyond-your-stars @starsdotalk @adeptusxia0

----

A few days have passed since your encounter with Red Robin. He hasn't shown up since, but another thing has.

Your work had sent you an email. An invitation to Wayne Enterprises, to represent them. According to them, your location was the closest to Wayne Enterprises, and so you were selected. You lived 50 minutes away from Wayne Enterprises. Their home office was 30 minutes away. You weren't sure who was doing the math here, but they needed some more practice.

That being said, you could notice a pattern when there was one. This was Tim Drake's attempt to get you out of your home. And unfortunately, it was going to work. You needed your job. It was perfect, remote, didn't bother you as long as you got the work done. Jobs like that were rare, especially in Gotham.

Not for the first time, you kinda felt like crying.

If Red Robin, your soulmate, was indeed Tim Drake, then what was this? Did he have you figured out? Or was he continuing the investigation?

You didn't know...

Refusing to show up would get you fired. There was no way around that. But, what if you couldn't go?

What if you were too injured to go? There's no way you could fake something, the bats are quite literally master detectives. That and your soul animal form would likely reveal the uninjured truth.

Maybe if you injured yourself?

No, no no no. That was a bad route to go down. If this meeting is to check whether you are soulmates with him, a matching injury on your soul animal form would be like a criminal and a suspect having the same tattoo.

There wasn't really any option here. Which, really, is just typical for the vigilantes of Gotham.

"Ughhh." You groaned to yourself, cradling your hands with your head. You glared over at Red, who had been showing up much more frequently these past few days (which was saying something, since all your soul animals were already by you 23/7). Red gave a small chirp in reply, some sort of smugness in its tone.

Maybe it was time to invest in wind chimes or something. You heard they can scare off robins.

You felt like you were going to need it.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tim's developed something of a guilty habit.

It wasn't a bad thing, per se. Nothing B would particularly frown at. Dick might even agree.

He imagined you wouldn't quite feel the same, though.

You looked especially fragile, as you slept. During the day your face was haunted by false bravado, a paranoid edge to every smile. Sleep smoothed out the lines of your face, giving a softer touch to your slumbering form.

You frown when he reaches out to poke your cheek. It's cute. His hand twitches for his camera. You're always cute, whether it's a small little frown on your face or beaming joy.

He's developed a new favorite activity. Alongside solving cases, he's now watching you. He wants to observe it all. From little habits to obvious passions, he wants to know everything. Hobbies, skills, loves, DNA. He'd only just found you, the answer to the mystery that he's been in since birth. He's had a lot of time to build up this obsession.

He wants and wants and needs. He can wait to take.

You are a light sleeper, but he's a quiet stalker. You don't always drink milk before bed, but when you do, you'll get a little more tired than usual. Your groggy face is cute, too.

He reached out, stroking your hair with the slightest of a smile beginning on his face. It was soft. It reminded him of you, your soul animal form. It had flinched away from him earlier, as it always does whenever they were in uniform. Finding that you do the same as a human wasn't so surprising.

They had adapted to your soul form’s skittishness. They could do the same again. His mind briefly flashed through some ideas, an ankle bracelet, a watch, a collar? If it was on the ankle, you'd match.

He broke out of his musings at the shift of movement. A flutter of wings. B’s soul animal flew down perching on a piece of furniture nearby as a vantage point. He smirked. Looked like he wasn't the only one feeling a little possessive tonight.

He must've been thinking of you. Not surprising, given that your soul form was scheduled time with him today. They had to work out a schedule, else there would have been a lot more stabbings. Not that it didn't prevent sudden abductions occasionally, thanks Jason.

That was fine though. B could have you tonight, Damian could have you tomorrow, Dick the next. Because Tim had the real you, right here.

And he wasn't planning on letting go.

There's a room he's preparing inside Drake manor. He’d put your name on it, but that would be too obvious if anyone came around. Instead, it would be his little secret with you. He's only just met you, but he has plenty of ideas for it already.

He didn't feel guilty for this. Not at all.

You were his as much as he was yours after all. If there was a problem with these feelings, then why would fate itself tie you to him?

If anything, the only guilt he’d feel is not telling anyone else. He couldn't help it, he just wanted you to himself for a while. He caught you, so he was allowed to have you.

But was that really guilt? Or just annoyance at the idea of getting caught?

An alert on his communicator made him frown, taking him out of the trance he had felt into. There was more he had to do.

A shame, but it was fine. He got to spend some quality time with you, taken a few things for the future. He’d make more time. And you'll have all the time in the world for him. But first…

Tim withdrew a specialty camera from his utility belt, raising it to his face. He adjusted a few settings, then…

Snap!

~ ~ ~ ~

You fought the urge to yawn. You have been so sleepy lately. You had to wake up especially early for today. Lovely.

At least today was the moment of truth. You'd show Red Robin for once and for all that you were perfectly normal, and not at all his soulmate. He’d lose interest, and your life would return to its domesticity.

The one good thing going for today was that you're somehow accompanied by none of your soul animals. A truly rare occasion that is ruined by the fact that you're instead visiting a soulmate in the flesh. If any of your soul animals do show up, you have your old reliable bag to shove them into. So, you should be alright.

Wayne Enterprises was a terrifying image, but you steadied yourself with the fact that your whole life’s freedom was at stake here, which was much more terrifying. After that you could get through the door. Security just letting you through after giving your name almost had you running out the door though, you'd admit.

The elevator ride was long and solemn, giving you time to think about everything. Maybe you should think about moving, staying in Gotham was perhaps a ridiculous sentiment to begin with. It was a shame though, you were a Gothamite through and through, you didn't want to leave the country your parents lived and raised you in.

Still, perhaps it was time to leave. Things were getting too risky. Thinking about it, Wayne Enterprises? Honesty what even was your life.

The ding of the elevator door interrupts your musings, an assistant directing you to Tim Drake’s office.

As you walk over, you can't help but listen in to some shouting coming from the room.

A younger voice is yelling. “Give me them! You do not deser-” The voice gets cut off, as an older voice yells back. “It is my turn, you do not get to just steal them!”

The younger voice starts up again, but so does the older voice, alongside what you can only presume to be fighting noises.

You just kinda stare at the door. You are a working professional, representing your company to the prestigious Wayne Enterprises. You came here with lofty expectations and responsibilities to fulfill. And the CEO… is fighting someone in his office.

You have no idea what to do.

A minute passes.

You started to think about signaling an assistant to come help, but before you could do so the fighting seemed to end with a shouted “Fine! But B will hear about-” you can't hear the rest, as the shouting returns to a normal volume.

A door is opened and slammed, footsteps retreating away from the office. You take a moment to appreciate the fact that Tim Drake’s office has two doors that lead in different places, because it means you didn't have to meet whoever he was fighting.

A second or two later, the door in front of you swings open. Tim Drake is facing you, his hair a little askew, and his cheeks a little red. He smiles, an easy thing. It's as if the sight of you brought it to his face.

“Welcome!” He waves you in, somehow not acknowledging what you just heard in any form. The objects in his office are perfectly aligned. Nothing looks disturbed at all. How?

He waves you over to a chair, settling into one himself.

“Well.” He begins. “It's nice to see you again, Y/n."

You hope this goes by quickly.

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mggslover · 5 months ago

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i love your firsts idea and i wanted to know if you could write something with experienced reader/unexperienced spencer where he is like an ass guy cause i always see him being a boobs guy in fics so id like to read something like this, maybe abt how he gets worked up looking at readers ass or some other scenario, totally up to you! love your fics 🩵

spencer seeing you in leggings genre: smut 18+ content warnings: perv!spence having dirty thoughts, dialogue from s9e18 but no spoilers word count: 1,3k a/n: i love your prompt!! i wasn't sure if you wanted reader and spencer to actually do something, so i hope i've found a good balance

“8.49,” Penelope groaned, wiping her forehead after running her third lap in a row. “Good God, that’s not even close.”

Spencer’s breath came in sharp bursts, his hands gripping his knees as he leaned forward. “You think they’ll really terminate us if we can’t run fast enough?”

“Probably something worse,” she sighed with a shake of her head. “They’ll probably make us take another fit test.”

Spencer grimaced at the thought. “I’d rather be terminated.”

Penelope snorted. “I just hope the PT instructors aren’t jerks. Those jock guys are always jerks.”

“Yeah, total jerks,” he agreed with a nod, but then his attention drifted away as he caught sight of two figures in the distance. “That’s probably them right now.”

Penelope squinted, following his line in sight. “Oh, look,” Penelope hissed, whipping her head back to Spencer. “He’s totally walking like a jerk. And ugh, look at her! That figure… that is just unfair.”

Spencer blinked rapidly as he could recognize your confident, hypnotic stride from miles away. “Wait a minute.”

“Oh my god, it’s them.” Penelope gasped, confirming Spencer’s suspicion as you and Derek made your way over to them.

“Why are you two here?” Penelope asked, trying to piece together what was going on.

“It looks like we’re your new PT instructors,” Derek responded, flashing an amused grin.

The second you came into view, Penelope’s complaints faded into the background, muffled to his ears. Spencer always thought you looked pretty. He admired how professional you looked, even in the field, but today was the first time he saw you outside the office. The training jacket you wore ended just above your hips, the fabric pulling snugly against your torso. His eyes traced the curve of your waist until they landed on your hips. The lavender color of your skin-tight leggings clung softly to your thighs, and Spencer had to fight back a moan at the sight. Penelope was right. Your figure was, indeed, unfair.

"Kid, where's your mind at?"

Spencer's head snapped up at Derek’s question, clearing his throat as he scrambled for an excuse. He could still feel the heat in his cheeks from the way he’d been staring at you.

Derek waved him off with an exasperated shake of his head. "Alright, from now on, I want you two to focus," he commanded in a no-nonsense tone, pointing at Spencer and Penelope.

“Shall we start with stair climbing?” Your voice rang out and Derek nodded in agreement.

“Let’s do that. Follow us,” Derek said, gesturing toward the stone stairs in the distance.

You turned to follow Morgan, and the movement knocked the breath right out of Spencer’s lungs. He choked on his inhale, his gaze drawn to the way the fabric of your leggings clung to the plumpness of your cheeks. The tight material left little to the imagination, every contour visible, accentuating the soft swell of your ass with every step. Spencer’s heart hammered in his chest, racing faster than it had during those grueling laps around the field.

Spencer’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he fought the heat beginning to pool low in his stomach. He couldn’t help the way his body was reacting to you, and the effort to control it only made things worse.

The exercise was simple—walking up the first few steps of the stairs and back down again. You called it a warm-up, unaware that every step you took made it harder for Spencer to keep his focus. Just the sight of you moving, the sway of your hips as the leggings stretched over your thighs, was enough to drive him crazy.

"This is torture," he muttered under his breath.

"I know, right? I can’t believe they’re making us do this." Penelope replied, completely oblivious to the source of his frustration.

———

A wave of relief washed over Spencer as he finally finished the exercise. His legs were burning, and he knew he’d be feeling it for the rest of the week. But at least it was over.

"Good job, Spence," you said, flashing him a bright smile as you gave his chest a quick pat. "And cute outfit," you added with a teasing tone, a compliment that made his heart skip.

"Oh, I—uh, thanks," he stammered, patting his red hoodie as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

"We're doing squats next. Derek's with Penelope. Want me to help you with your form?"

"Sure," he squeaked, his voice betraying his nerves.

You positioned yourself in front of him, glancing over your shoulder to make sure he was paying attention. And, obviously, he was—his gaze fixed on you almost too intently.

"Okay, the most important thing is to keep your back straight," you instructed, your voice calm and focused as you lowered your hips, sliding down until your thighs were parallel to the ground.

Spencer stood right behind you, so close that he could feel the heat radiating off your body. His shorts were growing uncomfortably tight from the proximity. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to pull you in by your waist, holding you flush against him.

"See how I'm doing it?" You asked innocently.

"Mhm. Looks good," he breathed out, his eyes lingering on you as he licked his lips.

He could picture it vividly—how perfectly his length would fit between your cheeks. How he would make you repeat that same motion against him until his dick would stand tall in response, throbbing with need. He imagined how easy it would be to slide your leggings down to your knees, leaving you exposed. Were you even wearing anything underneath?

The thought sent a surge of heat through him. He wondered if your closeness was affecting you in the same way. Wondered if he would find you wet, your pussy glistening with anticipation. Would you like him to softly trace your puffy lips with his finger? Or would you want him to waste no time, grabbing you by your thighs as he would enter you?

He asked himself if you were the type to let him take control, or if you’d bend over, pushing your own hips back against his, matching the deep rhythm of his thrusts. The thought of filling you, of hearing your gasps mix his moans, was clouding his mind.

Spencer hadn’t realized just how much his thoughts had turned him on, until your voice broke through his haze.

“Okay, your turn.”

He looked down, seeing how his dick had twitched up to the point where it was almost peeking out of his boxers. Shit. He made quick work of his hands, adjusting himself before you turned around.

“I—I’m so sorry. I need to go,” Spencer stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush before he turned and fled, leaving you without an explanation.

———

“Oh, come on man!” Derek groaned in disappointment as he spotted Spencer slumped on the grass at the far side of the field.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mumbled.

“Just one more round. You’ve got this,” Derek encouraged.

“I can’t.”

“You’re capable of more than you think.”

“Derek, I swear… I literally can’t get up.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, and with a defeated sigh, Spencer pointed awkwardly toward his shorts.

“Oh shit,” Derek responded as the realization dawned upon him.

“Is it because of…?” He pointed to the direction where you were standing and Spencer just nodded.

“Damn,” Derek muttered. “Well, okay, just take a break. Have some water. Relax those muscles.” He winced, immediately regretting his choice of words.

Spencer nervously looked up at him. “Will you tell her?

Derek shook his head. “Nah. As long as you don’t tell Penelope this whole fit test thing is just a formality and that I could’ve got the whole thing waived.”

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goldfades · 3 months ago

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could u write joe burrow and a young gf :3

ouuuu i lowkey love this!!! i forget joe is literally almost 30 sometimes cause he's been my baby since 2020 :(

The thing about loving Joe Burrow is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people would assume—Oh my God, you’re dating Joe Burrow—but in the quieter, trickier ways. Like how surreal it is to be brushing your teeth while he’s flopped across the bed scrolling through film, mumbling something about coverages.

Or how it feels when his name echoes from TV screens and sports talk shows, but the same voice that commands huddles and stadiums turns soft when he asks, “You good, babe?” after long days.

It started somewhere simple. It always does.

Before all the noise, before the headlines, before the whispers about her being too young or him settling down so soon. You were just you, balancing college classes and internships, while he was—well, Joe Burrow. Quarterback. Face of a franchise. The golden boy with ice in his veins and Ohio stitched into his heart.

The age thing? People love to talk.

"She's barely legal," Twitter said. "He's almost thirty—what could they possibly have in common?"

But nobody saw late nights where he quizzed you for exams between reps of watching film. No one heard him tease you about your Starbucks order or watched the way his whole face softened when you walked into a room.

You weren’t high school sweethearts or some college love story. You met after his star had already risen. He was 26 then, fresh off another playoff run. You were 20, still figuring out your major and how to parallel park. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. But somehow, between weekend flights to Cincinnati, cheap takeout, and late-night phone calls that stretched till sunrise, it became everything.

Now?

Now, he’s 28. And you’re counting down the weeks until your 22nd birthday.

It’s different now. The stakes are higher. His window is now, and yours is still unfolding. People don’t get that. They think he should be with someone who has it all figured out. Someone closer to his stage in life. But Joe? Joe never seemed interested in the version of you that had all the answers.

He likes you exactly as you are.

And maybe that’s what makes this all so dangerous. Because you love him like you have all the time in the world. But what if you don’t?

What if time, distance, and expectations catch up?

The thing about loving Joe Burrow is that it never feels real.

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

It started in the most unremarkable way, which, in hindsight, made it all the more impossible.

You weren’t supposed to be there that night.

It was late spring—warm air clinging to skin, cicadas humming like background noise. A friend dragged you out, promising “something low-key” that turned out to be anything but. A rooftop bar downtown, lights strung across beams, music low enough for conversation but loud enough to fill silences. The kind of place where everyone seemed to know someone.

You felt out of place almost immediately—twenty, still figuring things out, surrounded by people who seemed to have their lives together. People with jobs, plans, confidence. You clutched your drink like a lifeline, nodding along to conversations you weren’t part of.

And then—him.

Joe Burrow.

You knew of him, obviously. Everyone did. The city’s golden boy. LSU’s champion turned Cincinnati’s hope. The one with the calm stare and colder game. But seeing him there, in a soft gray hoodie and jeans that looked too casual for someone like him, was jarring.

He wasn’t surrounded by a crowd like you expected. No loud entourage, no flashy bravado. Just him, leaning against the railing, a glass of something in his hand, looking out at the skyline like he wasn’t the biggest deal in the room.

You tried not to stare. Failed miserably.

And he caught you.

But here’s the thing—you looked away first. You didn’t smile or wave or give him that Oh my God, it’s Joe Burrow look he was probably used to. You just turned back to your group, back to your half-finished drink, back to your uncomfortable corner.

But he noticed.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a glance. A flicker of interest, easily forgotten. But when you shifted places an hour later, needing air and space, there he was—somehow always there. Close enough to talk to, if you were brave enough.

You weren’t.

He was.

"Not your scene?"

His voice caught you off guard—low, almost shy. He wasn’t cocky about it, didn’t lead with who he was. Just a simple question. You glanced over, squinting against the fading light.

"Not really," you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yours?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Not really."

And that was it. A conversation that began with mutual disinterest in the place you both stood.

No cheesy pickup lines. No starstruck reactions. Just two people, sharing a quiet pocket of space in a loud world.

It started slow after that.

Joe wasn’t the type to rush things. He didn’t blow up your phone the next day. There were no grand gestures. Just texts that came at odd hours—memes, random thoughts, “this reminded me of you” photos. Late-night conversations that started light and ended heavy.

"What do you wanna do after school?" "Not sure yet. Still figuring it out." "That’s cool. You got time."

And he meant it.

He liked listening. That was the first thing you noticed. Everyone assumed he’d be the one with stories to tell, but Joe preferred hearing yours. He wanted to know about your classes, your friends, your opinions on movies you half-watched.

He didn’t treat you like you were younger. He didn’t make you feel like you had something to prove.

And maybe that’s why you fell for him first.

Not that you said it. Not for a while.

You didn’t know it, but Joe liked that you didn’t treat him like Joe Burrow. You talked to him like he was just a guy—messy, complicated, figuring things out. And he wanted that.

For months, things stayed undefined. Texts. Calls. Occasional meetups when he was in the neighborhood. You told yourself it wasn’t serious. Couldn’t be. He had an NFL career; you had classes and part-time jobs.

But then came that night.

It was after a tough loss—one of those games where the city buzzed with disappointment. You shot him a simple text: “Tough one. Hope you’re good.”

Didn’t expect a reply. But he did.

"Come over?"

It wasn’t a question. And when you showed up, hair still damp from a rushed shower, no makeup, heart racing—he looked at you like you were the best thing he’d seen all week.

"You’re here," he said softly, like he didn’t quite believe it.

"Of course I am."

That night, there were no cameras, no expectations. Just Joe—quiet, vulnerable—and you, sitting beside him on a worn-out couch.

He kissed you first.

Soft, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he should. Like he was giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

You never wanted to.

So how have you lasted this long?

Patience.

It wasn’t always easy. The age gap made things complicated. He was settling into his prime years—face of a franchise, pressure mounting. You were still growing, still becoming.

But Joe never expected you to catch up. He let you take your time. He liked that you weren’t rushing.

You learned his rhythms—when he needed space, when he needed reassurance. He learned your moods—when you were overwhelmed, when you needed grounding.

You made room for each other.

Not because it was easy. But because it mattered.

And somehow, almost two years later, here you still are.

Joe’s turning 28. You’re on the edge of 22.

Everyone still talks. But neither of you have ever cared much about what they say.

The apartment was quiet in that late-afternoon, honey-gold kind of way. The kind of light that stretched long shadows across hardwood floors and made everything feel softer, slower. The game was on mute—highlights from last week’s win looping on ESPN—while you sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through your laptop.

Joe was in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a faded Ohio State tee and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges. He moved with that same unhurried calm he always had off the field, focused on slicing up an apple with alarming precision for someone who could launch a 60-yard pass without blinking.

"You want some?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"No thanks," you mumbled, eyes still on the screen.

"Liar," he said, grinning. "You’re gonna steal a piece anyway."

He wasn’t wrong.

Joe crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside you with a quiet oof. The plate balanced on his knee, and sure enough, when he popped a slice into his mouth, he held another out for you without looking.

"Told you," he muttered around a bite.

"Whatever," you said, accepting it anyway.

This was what you two were like—easy.

No big gestures or loud declarations. Just knowing. He knew you’d take the apple slice even when you said you wouldn’t. You knew he’d watch you more than the TV. The spaces between you were always filled with things left unsaid but understood.

"Whatcha working on?" he asked after a moment, nodding toward your laptop.

"Paper. Boring. You wouldn’t care."

"I always care," he said, leaning back. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "Tell me."

You gave him a look, skeptical.

"You literally fell asleep last time I explained this class to you."

"Nah," he grinned, slow and lazy. "Just resting my eyes. You were doing great."

"Uh-huh."

Joe bumped your knee with his. "Tell me."

So you did. Stumbling through half-formed thoughts about your topic, tapping at the trackpad, rambling. You knew you were probably losing him—this wasn’t exactly thrilling stuff—but Joe kept his gaze steady on you. Not nodding along just to be polite. Actually listening.

That’s what always got you. He listened.

Even when he didn’t get it, even when he was tired or distracted—he paid attention because it was you.

When you finally trailed off with a shrug, mumbling, "See? Boring," Joe shook his head.

"Nah," he said. "You sound smart when you talk about stuff you like."

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

"I always sound smart," you shot back.

"Yeah," he said, grinning wider. "But especially when you’re like this. Focused. All serious."

He reached over, tugging gently at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Cute, too."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

You shoved him, and he laughed, warm and low, catching your wrist with a loose grip. Not tight—never tight—just enough to pull you closer until you were half in his lap.

"Say it again," you teased, narrowing your eyes. "Say I sound smart."

Joe’s eyes sparkled with something playful, something soft.

"You sound smart," he murmured, voice dropping.

His thumb brushed slow circles against the inside of your wrist. His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up.

"And cute," he added, softer this time.

Your breath hitched, and suddenly the space between you wasn’t so wide anymore.

Joe always did that—brought things back to the quiet. He had this way of looking at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like all the noise—fans, games, expectations—didn’t matter. Just you.

"You gonna kiss me or keep talking?" you whispered.

He didn’t smile this time. Just leaned in, closing the gap, slow and sure.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t some movie-scene, fireworks kind of thing. It was steady. Familiar. Warm. The kind of kiss that said, I know you. I’ve got you.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Neither of you said anything for a beat.

Then—

"Told you I’d make you forget about that boring paper."

"You’re the worst."

"Mm. But you love me."

"Unfortunately."

He grinned. "Lucky me."

And that was it. That was you two.

Not always perfect. Not always poetic. But steady.

Because at the end of the day, loving Joe Burrow wasn’t about the headlines or the spotlight. It was this—apples shared on a quiet afternoon, lazy kisses between conversations, and the unshakable certainty that when the world got loud again, you’d both still be right here.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #jb9 #joe shiesty #bengals #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

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dreamlandbarnes · 5 months ago

Text

f1 fic recs

a compilation of all the fics i've been reading in the f1 rpf tag on ao3! please leave comments and kudos for the authors, and check the tags before reading. sorted by pairing, and summary and word count are provided. none of these fics are mine.

if your fic is on here and you want it removed, please let me know!

part 2

charles leclerc / max verstappen

bloodsport by 140445 | 37,711 words | M

“I don’t care about then, you are here now,” Charles says. “You are on my side now.” Max is on his side. It’ll feel like that, too, at some point. Surely. Or: Max and Charles as teammates for the 24 hours of Le Mans.

such murderous and vengeful desire by foggystars | 20,676 words | E

Where Carlos’ girlfriend has her fingers crossed, keeps covering her eyes as if she can’t bear to watch, Max is focused, mouth set in a hard line. He’s leaning in, balancing on the edge of his seat. To anybody else he looks intent, focused on the screen. To Charles, he looks like a bird, poised to take wing. Like he’s about to fly right through the screen and take the steering wheel from Charles’ clumsy hands, get in there and drive the car himself. When Max Verstappen suffers a career ending injury, he pours all his effort into turning his old rival, Charles Leclerc, into a worthy champion. Five years and two world championships later, they finally decide to talk about it.

like in love with me by linearity | 7,800 words | T

Austria 2019, a two-person house party, Abu Dhabi 2021, a silly lover’s quarrel, and a stove-side morning proposal.

Anonym by additiv | 13,971 words | E

The truth is, Max finds Charles unbelievably annoying. He’s chaotic and unpredictable. He’s staring at Max across the room one moment, and in the next, seems to have forgotten he exists. He swaps clothes with people at random, whipping off his faded Gucci t-shirt in the middle of the dance floor, to trade it for some girl’s crop top, laughing and crowding close to block the view of her body while they make the exchange. When he disappears to the bathroom, Max never knows whether he’ll reappear with glitter on his eyelids, or white powder on his nose. He flirts with every person in the room, and probably sleeps with them too. He ignores Max completely, then goes home with him. He’s always gone when Max wakes up; nothing left behind, nothing missing. He refuses to stay the night, but refuses to let Max get over him. And, he refuses to let Max know anything about him.

when you cut me open by triangularity (linearity) | 44,900 words | E

Well, Charles concedes, miserably. He did die last night. A few days staying with his vampire ex-boyfriend probably isn’t the worst thing he’ll have gone through in January.

a life in your shape by weiwuxian (BreathOfDream) | 29,431 words | E

“Oh god, not you,” Charles groans, crossing his arms on his chest. The Batman visibly rolls his eyes (blue, of course, because all men that messed with Charles’ life had that in common apparently) at his reaction, but another look at Charles makes him step closer. “Yes, always a pleasure. Are you ok?” or: 5 times both Max and the Batman makes Charles' life a lot more complicated than needed + 1 time he doesn't

Frecheit by additiv | 208,723 words | E

The first time that Max heard the name Charles Leclerc was in 2022, just after winning his first WDC. Maybe it only stuck because he heard it twice in one night; first as Leclerc was announced as the 2022 F3 champion. Second, as Helmut lamented not signing him to the Red Bull driver development program. Now, Max is ready to put the newly-promoted Ferrari driver in his place. The problem is, Leclerc seems to think his place is on the top step of the podium. And he is not playing by the rules. An age-difference fic, where they never got to work out their differences as kids. 3-time WDC Max's experience of being personally victimised by baby-Charles.

in dream by 140445 | 81,025 words | E

Charles tried to figure out the dream on his own. In the morning he sat down with a cup of coffee, trying to make sense of what he had seen—he even googled it. Surely, Charles couldn't be the first or only person to dream about someone he shouldn't. But there were no search results for my professional rival is suddenly also my soulmate or soulmate dream of someone i'm not supposed to want???. (In a world where soulmates identified each other by sharing a dream, Charles dreamt of the last person he expected.)

heart of the wind by pipitass | 13,830 words | M

There’s a slip of paper taped next to one of the doorbells — third floor, second door. It should, in theory, be the one directly across from his own. Max V. “Yes?” “Uh— hi.” He clears his throat. “It’s your neighbor. From across the street. Your, your clothes…” He doesn’t really know what to say after that. Hi, I got into a street fight with your bedsheets yesterday. Welcome to the neighborhood.

charles_leclerc ✔️ posted: 😘 by ninetqs | 11,500 words | M

Charles posts a photo with a mystery man and casually breaks the Internet in the process.

cameras in the traffic lights by c_e_1 | 9,958 words | M

Pop Crave @PopCrave • Aug 13 2023 Popstar Charles Leclerc has put his instagram on private after fans spotted Formula 1 driver Max Verstappen in the background of his vacation photos 303 comments | 1.6K retweets | 10K likes

(don't read) the last page by mintchocolatechip97 | 7,475 words | E

Max feels a light tap on his arm, and turns to see the beautiful door-opener, chestnut brown curls fluffed up on his head like he’s been running his hands through his hair. “I have been on a set a time or two,” the man says, trying and failing to wink, “but this is my first time in a writers room, so you are not the only rookie here.” He clearly speaks English fluently, but has a smidge of a European accent, which Max thinks might be French. “I’m sorry,” Max says, a little annoyed that this stranger is speaking to him as if they know each other, “I didn’t catch your name?” Several emotions flit over the man’s face, in such quick succession that Max can’t quite catch them all. In the end, he looks mortified. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he says, “This is going to sound terrible, like I am the worst kind of person, but I thought you would know who I was.” Dr. Max Verstappen gets hired as the expert medical consultant for a new Netflix show. Charles Leclerc, former teen heartthrob, stars.

all i know of love is hunger by 140445 | 28,509 words | E

Anger flares in Charles’ chest. Not the kind that he feels in the car, when he’s on Max’s tail, when they are braking late and later. The one that’s been looming over his head ever since Max announced his retirement. The one he hasn’t been able to tame until now, until he can give it a name. Betrayal.

hollywood and highland by japrufrocks | 26,730 words | E

Max had left New York a week before Charles had, seven days exactly. Max had gone to Hollywood; Charles had gone to a hospital. Now they're starring in the same film. Hollywood gives its darlings everything. It takes everything too.

straight lines (that unwind you) by 140445 | 16,330 words | E

“Do you know him?” Arthur asks. “No,” Charles decides. Because he does not. He knows Max is a mathematics major, and that he plays chess. And that he hits the gym. And what he looks like when he comes. Details.

all to play for by linearity | 49,300 words | E

Charles Leclerc is not at Red Bull to win races. He is here to win championships.

my thoughts will echo your name by witchee_writer | 38,826 words | M

“Do you think you’ll ever want to do Le Mans one day?” asked Max, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him. Charles’ eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. “I think I want to win Le Mans one day.”

heart on your sleeve by nyoomfruits | 4,812 words | T

The thing about having a racing helmet that constantly displays your emotions for the whole world to see, is that you kind of get used to it after a while. These days Charles almost forgets it’s even a thing. Almost. But then he goes and falls in love.

ghost of you by nyoomfruits | 3,436 words | T

“All right, are you now finally ready to explain why four time world driver champion Charles Leclerc is currently in my living room?” Max says, as Charles towels off his hair. Charles pauses, lets the towel fall into his lap, stares at Max with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say four time?”

The HR Situation by thearchercore | 3,027 words | Gen

Jacob found out many things during his first month in the new HR role - Mary and Connor from Aero Engineering were dating. Thomas and Nick from Comms got recently divorced and it's a sensitive subject. Eddie from Legal had to go to an Anger Management class but hasn't had any issues since his return. Oh, and also - Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were fucking weird about each other. or: Charles and Max go to Mercedes and the HR Department is in shambles.

Sawtooth by nottonyharrison | 40,305 words | E

In another universe, Max rejected karting at the age of fifteen, no longer prepared to be a proxy for his father’s dream. He moved back to Belgium to live with his mum and sister, excelled at school, and eventually went on to complete a Masters of Mechanical Engineering. Now 27, after four years working for Alfa Romeo and Sauber, first as a junior performance engineer and then on the pit wall for Zhou Guanyu, he’s put forward for a job with Ferrari when Carlos Sainz is left without a race engineer thanks to the increasingly hectic F1 schedule. The problem is, Max has a crush on Carlos’ teammate. A huge, obvious, embarrassing crush that leaves him stumbling for words, face burning every time he’s within six feet of the guy. What makes it even worse is that sometimes he’s sure that Charles is looking right back.

leminiscate by weiwuxian (BreathofDream) | 27,799 words | E

Charles tries to imagine Max, on the opposite side of the kitchen. Eating bread too, like he did that first morning of the After—gross and charming. Tries to think about the way he would hold him, maybe. Of the softness of his lips, glossed by butter; and how he would laugh and push him away. His phone dings and he blinks himself awake once again.

achilles comes down by sincerelylancelot | 21,068 words | M

The World Championship trophy rests in his trembling hands, his name etched in fine gold. It isn't until he's staring down at it—his name nestled close to Max’s—that he realises his dreams have always been carved out of someone else’s pain. Jules. Max. And now, maybe even himself.

charles leclerc / carlos sainz jr

a bad recompense for your love by steviethenarwhal | 65,162 words | M

“I do not want to date you,” Charles says. Carlos’s eyes slide warily over to him. He tries to explain. “I do not date men. It would be… not smart.” “I don’t want to date you either,” Carlos says. “I do not date racecar drivers.”

translation theory by linearity | 9,500 words | E

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, their Il Predestinato. He likes it up the ass and likes getting fucked by rockstars who have more tattoos than thoughts in their brains. What a fucking joke.

semiotic study by linearity | 8,600 words | E

Carlos knows. He knows what this is and what this is not. This is not romance, this is not love, but Charles makes it so easy to slip into that illusion. Charles makes it so hard, and Carlos cannot be without.

last night by venerat | 24,259 words | E

Rule #1: When you go to America, don't lose your virginity to your best friend's roommate. Charles fails Rule #1.

Good Boy by chiliconcarlos | 8,445 words | E

Really, it’s all Alex’s fault. ~~ Or: the one where Charles and Carlos want to settle the question of who's better in bed.

at the dinner table with god and my father by Cloudcollector | 4,599 words | M

There is a table in his house that knows more about him than his father. Or, Carlos and his father. And the family dinner table through the years.

win or lose (it's how you play the game) by chiliconcarlos | 18,321 words | E

It all starts because of a stupid bet. Or: Carlos suggests a hickey bet for their '23 season, and it goes about how you'd expect.

darling by magnificentbirb | 6,579 words | T

The pet names begin as a joke.

carlos sainz jr / oscar piastri

take it or leave it by venerat | 6,771 words | E

r/relationships: My (22M) coworker (29M) keeps irritating me at work

he just turned in like i didn't exist by linearity | 36,500 words | E

Oscar doesn’t have a problem with his soulmate. It’s his soulmate who has the fucking problem.

Happy Death Race by powerfulowl (playmyace) | 28,390 words | E

Carlos gazes up at the fake blue sky. Dopey grin, contrapposto pose, head as empty as the cottony clouds above. “Look, look. Look, Piastri. It is always daylight.” Oscar imagines pushing him into the piss water canal. "Yeah, cool. Stop dying!" (Oscar is in a time loop and Carlos won't stop dying.)

when both our cars collide by buildyourfences | 8,483 words | M

It’s race day, which means his phone shouldn’t be ringing. And yet, it is. “Carlos, why are you not at the track yet? We are waiting for you.” “But–” “I sent you the updated schedule last night, please get here as soon as possible.” The call ends. He blinks down at the phone in his hand. Friday, March 1. Well, that’s not right. Carlos is trapped in a time loop. He can't stop crashing with Oscar.

at a constant speed by wisteriagoesvroom (bobaheadshark) | 11,676 words | E

“Are you close?” Oscar asks. “What does it look like?” “I wasn’t expecting it to be, uh, so…” What? Oscar wants to add. Hot? Desperate? Pathetic? All of the above? --- Or, carcar get themselves into a situationship, and it just keeps situating.

left a calling card so they would know that it was me by xxxdeerlordxxx | 6,139 words | E

Carlos continues to sit there, in the cockpit with his back to the wall, pieces of the torn advertisements raining down on him. He can see a big screen from where he’s at, the replays they show over and over, of Carlos spinning out, of Oscar driving away from the incident like nothing happened. Because of course no one believes him. But Carlos knows that Oscar’s to blame. Just not in the way people might think.

hatred cradles you by foggystars | 6,829 words | E

“You see?” Carlos asks, hanging up the phone. “He does not pick up.” Oscar shrugs, unsure why Carlos seems to think this is his problem. Just because Oscar’s his teammate doesn’t mean he knows where Lando is at all times, like some sort of twink-seeking missile. Then Carlos says, “I wait for him in here,” and nods to himself. He’s walking into Oscar’s hotel room before he can stop him, and all Oscar can do is blink stupidly at the empty stretch of hallway where Carlos once stood.

in midnight’s jaws by Springsteen | 30,806 words | E

Werewolves are fiction, the stuff of books and movies just like witches and zombies. Men do not turn into wolves, or fly on broomsticks, or raise the dead. There must be a logical explanation for the restlessness in Carlos's blood, for the waves of pain so sudden and intense it feels as though his bones are trying to break free of his body. Surely there is a perfectly good reason for Carlos to have woken in the dirt the morning after a full moon, with no idea where he is or how he got there. And surely there was a reason he turned to Oscar Piastri, of all people, for help.

pulling teeth by arboretics | 9,030 words | Not Rated

Oscar is very private, very in control. Carlos pretends he is both of those things, too. But after a late night collision in Baku 2024, things spiral between them into something straddling a game and an uncomfortable intimacy. A year on, Oscar and Lando are battling for the championship, Carlos is fighting for low points finishes, and Oscar loses his grip on the whole situation.

the better half of a good time by antimonyandthyme | 4,413 words | E

“Most guys, they look at the date.” He manages to make it sound both admiring and chiding. Oscar is very quickly losing control of this conversation. “Do you make a habit of just giving your license out? To every stranger you meet?” “Only those I really like.”

reckless attention by crescenteluce | 4,290 words | E

It’s probably on Oscar to be the bigger person here, to tell Carlos if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. But that’s the thing about Carlos – he doesn’t exactly inspire Oscar to be the best version of himself.

george russell / max verstappen

winning mentality by linearity | 18,500 words | E

It’s not, like, a thing. It’s only happened twice, if you don’t count the time during the pre-season when Max shoved a thigh against George’s crotch, and George, touched-deprived and broken-hearted, let out a sharp gasp and came instantly. Max, looking shocked and frightened, stormed away.

cut your teeth by 140445 | 9,224 words | E

And that is the thing that brought George here. Eat or be eaten. It’ll happen either way. Maybe here, he will like the taste.

full throttle by calenmirel | 3,397 words | E

Later, Max will turn to him, meeting his gaze head on, and ask if George truly hadn’t seen him in his mirrors at turn eight, like George had claimed. He'll rub his hands on his racesuit as he says it, like he'll be rid of the phantom feeling of George's hair from between his fingers if he wipes them hard enough. George will look back at him, licking the taste of Max from the back of his teeth like he can savour it, and will reply, “of course I didn’t,” lying through his smile.

alexander albon / george russell

a feeling all brand new by ginnydear | 16,481 words | M

Alex is halfway through his sandwich when he starts to feel talkative, so he takes a sip of his tea and waits for Logan to finish chewing before he says what’s running through his mind at full speed. “I think I’m homophobic.”

nothing but teeth by crescenteluce | 25,057 words | E

“Oh, come on.” Alex says, poking George in the thigh again with his foot. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a little-” Alex makes a complicated hand-wavy gesture that has the contents of his glass nearly sloshing over the sides. “At your fancy boy schools, a little stiff upper-lipped make-out amongst the chaps? In between rounds of cricket and fox hunting?”

carlos sainz jr / max verstappen

ease the madness by magnificentbirb | 12,231 words | M

Max signed away his soul on his sixteenth birthday.

pierre gasly / charles leclerc

a long time (maybe forever) by strongestavenger | 10,021 words | T

AITA: homophobic but only to my roommate/best friend? First of all, I swear I have never been a discriminatory person – I have lots of gay friends and my little brother is bisexual. I know that sounds stupid as hell but it’s my only defense right now. My problem is that I (Marc, 26M, straight) have a roommate (Jacques, 28M, gay), who has also been my best friend since we were kids, and I think I’ve started to feel homophobic towards him? (or: Charles needs some outside help to figure things out.)

miscellaneous / general / multi

One thousand laps of jeddah by in_in_in_in_in_in_in | 68,585 words | Gen

George feels sick for the whole ride to the track. He has no idea how he got from breakfast to the car, let alone how he shook off Alex. He knows that he said ‘for god’s sake, Alex, I’m not on drugs’ about a hundred times, even though he’s not at all sure that it’s the truth. What else could have happened to him? Did he dream the race last night?

eat them alive by linearity | 57,000 words | E

Oscar lost Lando a championship and left McLaren. There was still a year in between.

the condominium community committee by jusst_you_wait | 36,452 words | T

the condominium community - 2:36pm Oscar and Logan have been added to the chat George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised ~ or, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building

temperature get to you by minieggs11 | 9,339 words | E

It’s Logan’s last ride of the night, it’s clearly two drunk tourists going back to their hotel. As long as they give him a five star rating, he doesn’t care what happens.

sugar and spice by pipitass | 10,785 words | E

“Do you know already? Who you’ll pick?” Oscar frowns. Eyes still closed, scrunched now. Sharp brows downturned, meeting in the middle of his face. “When you win.” The frown deepens for a second. Then his face releases, and he shrugs. Shuffles as he goes to lay down, kicking his shoes off before he brings them up so his toes are poking at Max’s thigh, settling in. “Someone nice.”

triple header by 140445 | 7,890 words | E

Because Oscar isn’t here with Charles. And he’s not here with Max. He doesn’t get it, this thing between Max and Charles. They look like they’re here together, share glances that make Oscar feel like an intruder—but Max brought Oscar back to the booth to sit with them. For Charles to flirt with him. As if it’s some kind of game, where Max brings back prey for Charles to take.

somebody else by piastrism | 31,252 words | E

Oscar misses the color lilac — the color of the twilight sky behind Charles as they drank wine on Sedici, and the long-faded color left behind on his hips by Max’s fingertips.

we'll take the shadows (since the limelight isn't ours) by magnificentbirb | 2,177 words | T

Lando hears the screech of tires on asphalt behind him, the distant crunch of carbon fiber colliding with a wall. He glimpses only the aftermath of the carnage—the dust and smoke, the flashing lights, the unmistakable gleam of bright red—and then he’s clear. And that’s when the seconds slow down.

possessed by light by Anonymous | 6,885 words | Gen

It is a lesson you learn alone. Or that you are supposed to learn alone. At some point you will look at yourself in the mirror and see not just flesh and blood. You will see the capabilities beyond that. You will see your body as a ladder to forever ascend, to always want more. You will see just what you’re made of—and you will realise it has to be used. You will learn not to waste it. Charles did not learn that on his own.

#f1 rpf #fic rec #f1 fic rec #lestappen #charlos #carcar #gax #1633 #charles leclerc x max verstappen #charles leclerc x carlos sainz #carlos sainz x oscar piastri #george russell x max verstappen #5581 #3363 #i do not know how to tag everything uhhhh #thank u fic writers for my life #need to go through my own list bc i'm behind on leaving comments and bookmarks

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