#best racing car engine oil

[rofeibi]

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[gamermattsgf]

Tokyo drifters // drag racer Chris

Warnings: car sex / tit fuck / cum kink / fingering / cunnalingus / size kink / spit kink / enemies to lovers trope / dangerous driving ig (?) / mentions of smoking and brief mentions of alcohol / praise kink

Summary: what do you get when you cross a competitive drag racer with an equally as competitive opponent? Smoke, engine oil and a whole lot of sexual tension, that’s what.

Author’s notes: and so let the obsession with racer fics begin, but with a Chris flavoured twist. Chris strikes me as the illegal, reckless driver type, hence my modern twist on something very fast and furious-esque. Chris x drag racing actually makes me wet u guys I fucking love it, like- imagine him drifting around in a red Nissan Skyline gtr with his black and white leather jacket on, UGH it really just gets me going…

“We could do whatever you want, you could fuck me in the back of your car” - HER, Chase Atlantic

The black asphalt glimmers with a coat of wetness and a pattern of oil spillage slicked over the top of it, the technicolour rainbow greased and worming in the fluorescent lights of the street as the heavy hum of revved engines purr in your ears and echo across the emptied roads.

Beer bottles and cans splash here and there on the dripping concrete with discarded cigarette cases and lighters balanced on top of littered leather jackets.

Illegal drag racing. Bets. Stacks of money shoved into the pockets of the driver that is triumphant at the end of the night.

You’re here because this place is rife with the best of the best. The ones who really soak their hands in the leather of their steering wheels, who breathe the musk of their seats, and who burn the rubber marks of their legacies into the very streets that they rocket through each early A.M.

At present you stand to the side of the pavement, smelling the stench of broiling petrol mingled with the scent of flavoured cigarette smoke.

Your eyes survey the various Suzukis, Mustangs and Toyota drifters, all in different colours and all with different painted decals to signify each of the driver’s unique personality, wrinkling your nose at the lack of female drivers leaning against their own cars.

There are plenty of people here.

The rules are simple, you bet on the driver you wager is going to win and then whatever number of votes the driver receives determines their starting position at the beginning of the race.

As your eyes pass over the mingling people chatting in heaped groups with different drivers, you dismally notice the one person who you most definitely did not want to run into tonight. The only other person who can match your speed.

Great. Well that’s just fucking fantastic.

He is on his own. His lanky figure leaning against his electric red Nissan drifter with sleek black wheels and windows, his raven brown hair dusting his face in waving curls as his hands tuck themselves into his black and white leather racer jacket.

A long white cigarette lies perched in between his lips, smoke lazily oozing out from the lit cherry before dispersing into the cool night air in front of him.

He makes no effort to smoke it properly, simply lets it rest in between the purse of his lips whilst he too, observes his competition.

That is, until his eyes trail their way over to you. Now you’re both looking at each other, and he finds it within himself to cockily smirk, your silent rivalry unnoticed by the rest of the bustling audience here to simply bet and watch the race.

You scoff quietly, pushing your feet into a walk, you’ve got to go and talk to him now.

You gradually make your way across the sopping wet tarmac road, heading straight in the direction of the one man who always knows how to rub you the wrong way.

As you go, you fish one of your own cigarettes out of your cigarette case, and then light it. It sparks, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly whilst waiting for you to reach him.

When you do, you stop and nod at him in greeting, mumbling a curt ‘Chris’ after whipping your cigarette from out of your mouth and resting it within your pointer and middle finger.

To contrast your cold behaviour, your arch nemesis tilts his head playfully, his smugness practically oozing from his figure as he retorts with a ‘hey sugar… ready to lose tonight?’. Your nostrils flare.

The only reason you came tonight to race is because you didn’t think Chris would be here.

You fucking hate racing him, in fact, you hate even being within a close proximity to him. He drives you up the wall, irritates you to no end and most importantly- absolutely chokes you with conflicted feelings.

Because how can someone that you hate this much also be someone you feel so irresistibly attracted to?

Chris always finds the most painful of ways to dig under your skin and clamp his claws around you until you’re gasping for air and practically begging to be let free.

Free from the inescapable prison that coaxes you into constantly thinking about him, even when he’s not around.

‘You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you win tonight, that money is mine’ you spit a laugh, before feeding your cigarette into your mouth and inhaling it to calm your nerves. He makes your fingers twitch, and sometimes you’re not sure if it’s because you want to wrap them around his throat or use them to pull his neck down into a kiss.

He raises his eyebrows and starts to once again use the mocking lilt to his tone that you know oh-so-well. ‘Oh really? Because last time I checked I’m pretty sure that money had my name on it’. He readjusts his lean on his red Nissan to make himself seem taller, and you grit your teeth at his teasing antics.

You don’t answer, and instead open you mouth. Chris watches the smoke that you had been holding in your lungs come seductively curling out, and he swallows nervously. It mingles between you two like a barrier of attraction before melting away into the damp air above you as you resume your usual grilling.

‘How’d you even find out about this race anyway? Thought you stayed on the South side?’

Chris shrugs and basks in the obvious annoyance your voice contains. He knows he’s in dangerous territory, this is your side of town, and you know the roads way better than him over here. But then again, when has Chris ever backed down from a challenge?

Plus, he fucking loves teasing you. He gets such a rise out of it every single time, in which case it’s worth hauling his ass all the way over to the other side town just for a race.

Just to see you.

He can’t help it, he just can’t keep himself away.

‘Friend of a friend’ he responds vaguely, before deciding to pluck the almost burnt out cigarette from his lips so that he can thrust it to the floor and crush it underneath his sneaker.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t believe that Chris managed to weasel his way into this race, because it’s definitely going to ruin your chances of going home with that prize money. To say Chris is a reckless driver is an understatement, he’s fucking good, but he also takes risks, risks that bargain with his life and the lives of others, so naturally, when people see his notorious red car pull up to races they panic and stay far behind him.

Not you though.

‘You best count your fucking days Chris because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you win this time…’.

Chris chuckles, his eyes narrowing in a siren-like way before reaching up to your mouth and slowly pulling your cigarette from out of your lips. ‘Yeah…? Well we’ll see about that, won’t we baby cakes?’ he chides, before fully stealing your cigarette and putting it into his own mouth without hesitation.

Your blood boils at his persistence and you spin around in a rage, wishing you could just run him over with your car. At least that would stop the heartbeat from pulsing in between your legs at his weirdly sexual action.

After watching you whisk away, Chris quickly gets into his car and slams his red door closed, satisfied with how flustered you had looked. Revving his engine with a humongous effort to get the race going, he knuckles his leather steering wheel before pulling away from the crowd to let them know that the race will shortly commence.

He is definitely eager to prove you wrong as he observes the way the heavy crowd of people disperse from the middle of the road and let the competitors and their cars through to their designated spots for the countdown.

Engines throttle and rev, starting up and growling like hungry beasts whilst you get into your own car. You then drive to your own assigned spot which had been conveniently placed somewhere in the middle for tonight’s race.

Suddenly, you spot a flash of red roaring up from behind you in your rear view mirror and you resist the roll of your eyes at Chris’ boy racer behaviour.

Chris’ car comes creeping up to level with yours. Slowly, the driver’s window is rolled down and you are faced with his attractive side profile, his nose delicately curving and his jawline popped. Except, now his hair is pulled back by a red bandana, leaving his earrings to glint in the fluorescent artificial light.

He faces forward, but then turns with another smirk plastered to his lips.

You roll your own window down, your engine also screaming to go, but instead of a red colour, your car exudes a violet purple hue, your front and rear lights tinted indigo with plastic filters that make the car in front of you glow a hazy pink.

‘May the best driver win, sugar’

The devil’s smile is concocted between his own teeth, the cheeky glint in his eye echoing the way he mockingly puts his pointer and middle finger up to his forehead to salute you before putting his foot on the gas pedal and roaring ahead to take his privileged place at the front of the line.

᧔♡᧓

Engines growl, their exhaust pipes spitting out puffs of gasoline scented smoke whilst each of the multicoloured cars creep into their places.

An orange car motors past you on your right, and a grey and blue one slides past your left, leaving you in the wet spray that their scuffed tyres kick up, but you’re not paying attention to them.

Craning your neck, your eyes narrow and your jaw grits at the back bumper tail of Chris’ neon red vehicle, the red brake lights glowing like the eyes of a demon as he simply sits stationary.

The city lights glow from the skyscrapers and illuminate the starting route of your racetrack, the wet asphalt making the reflections of the luminescent lampposts shine and bounce about the technicolour array of cars on display.

Chris thinks he’s better than you? Well, you’re just going to have to put that theory to the test then.

You hope that his heart beats just as competitively as yours, his eyes constantly checking for your pink headlights in his rearview mirror.

Finally, reaching into your glove compartment to slide on your black tinted sunglasses, you shut it back up again to listen to the heavily increased revs of car engines. The muffled cheers from the audience provide white background noise whilst the drivers’ exhausts rattle and their pipes growl.

A woman in sky-high stilettos then comes walking into view with a white flag raised above her head.

The crowd suddenly silences, all on the edges of their seats with anticipation.

Without another moment to lose, she quickly swipes down the flag, the white fabric fluttering as she goes before engines shriek and cars jerk forward, each driver putting the pedal to the floor. This forceful way of starting roars the inner workings of their cars whilst they frantically try to switch gears.

Coloured machines weave in and out of each other as the gods of drag racing look down upon the fast-paced urgency of the race, drivers testing one another and pushing their bodies to the limits as they zip and swerve about the road.

You keep your eyes locked upon Chris’ monster of a car though, because it easily pulls out in front and his drive forward quickly clears of any other cars. They just can’t keep up with his intricate drift work and very readily fall behind him.

You’ll admit, his turn of the wheel is masterful and his eye for the surroundings is impeccable as he nearly just shaves around corners and obstacles whilst keeping a steady track of the pathway ahead. However, this only increases your desire to win more.

You find your foot gently feathering upon the accelerator, your car rattling within your ears as the wind from your open window beats against your face and whips your hair around your neck.

You have already overtaken a handful of cars by now, with tyres screeching and smoke exuding from the rubber.

The eyes of every racer competing constantly zip about, just to check for lurking police cruises whilst traveling down the racer’s route through the nearly abandoned city road.

Your beasts for machines rocket past alleyways, giving homeless people a show as your paint jobs flash by their eyes in a juvenile blur.

Gears click as both yourself and Chris constantly press down on the clutch to drift around tight corners, your teeth gritting as you realise that you are now only a few competitive cars behind him.

Chris, meanwhile, frantically looks through his wing mirror to count how many cars lie between yourself and him.

But, then he widens his eyes and has to adjust it in confusion at the infuriating sight of your purple car hightailing it up the road to try and catch him. Already?

This always fucking happens whenever he gets a head start.

He rolls his eyes, stepping on his gas pedal even more to makes his car groan and jerk away on in front once again.

His bandana stays secured onto his head whilst he chews irritably against a fresh toothpick selected from out of his own glove compartment that also contains random junk such as cherry cigarette packets and condoms.

‘Fuckin’ woman’ He spits underneath his breath before aggressively jerking his wheel to the side and rounding another corner perfectly. His car skids and his wheels screech over the asphalt, centimetres away from hitting the curb before he’s straightening his steering wheel up again.

This time though, he can see the finish line in the distance, the small crowd of spectators gathering like little observant ants, watching as his car comes racing towards them from the mist of the city horizon.

However, you come in straight behind him with your engine roaring and your gasoline bubbles popping. Soon, your window reaches his, and you look to your left to see his side profile.

His jaw is clenched with his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows sitting in a glared furrow. His pupils then quickly flit to your car, and you pass each other a challenging look, hate spiralling within your gazes.

And everything is passive between the two of you, that is, until Chris decides to fight dirty.

His lips purse and he yanks his neck to face forward once again, before turning his wheel aggressively. His drifter then swerves near your wheels, nearly knocking you off to the side and sending you skidding into the curb. You frantically have to straighten back up again after only narrowly avoiding the crunch of his front bonnet.

That fucker.

‘HEY!?’

You yell to him with your window down, but he puts his own one up in response, his lips twitching up into a mischievous smile as he tries to tango with you upon the stretch of your own battlefield containing engine oil and concrete road strips.

He goes in for another direct hit, your tyres dangerously close to each other’s as his machinery tries to ram into yours.

Worryingly, you realise that Chris probably isn’t going to stop this dangerous teasing because of his determination to win. So, through your better judgement, you slow yourself and defeatedly allow his cocky red bumper to cut in front of your bonnet.

Chris beats you by a second, his wheels screeching over the pathetic make-shift line drawn in squiggly black graffiti.

You’re practically seething at this point.

After you angrily jerk your steering wheel, your car drifts to the side and it expels hot smoke from the grind it has against your back tyres before coming to a sideways halt.

You put your car in park, take off your seatbelt and speedily open your car door.

As you step out, you see that Chris has also stopped and gotten out himself, his sneakers crunching against the wet tarmac and his leather jacket squeaking whilst he slams his own car door shut behind him.

You clock eyes with each other and immediately find yourself storming up to his victorious figure that yet again leans against his car door suavely.

Whilst making your way over, someone sidles up to him and hands him a thick wad of cash that he stuffs right into his conniving little pockets with a mean smile of his face, aimed directly at you.

As you reach him, you just can’t help yourself, and before you know it you’re knuckling your fists into his leather jacket and yanking him right down to your face. His breath hitches in shock as he sees your lips close enough to claim that you are practically kissing.

Instead of actually kissing him however, you spit out a ‘what the fuck are you playing at?’ with your eyes narrowed and glinting frostily in the city lights.

They travel over his face, scanning him with scepticism whilst little strands of his raven brown hair curl out from the hold of his red bandana, no longer combing the shorter ones back and just letting them freely swish about his eyes in the wind.

‘Listen honey if you want me to pay for any scratches I gave to your paint job no can do, told you that money was mine…-‘ he cheekily retorts, using one of his ridiculously irritating nicknames for you to further worsen your drumming heart beat.

You didn’t realise you had pulled him this close until now.

This makes your nostrils flare with anger and you quickly release him, seemingly in denial of your own feelings as you listening to the way the zips of his leather jacket jingle at the force of your strength.

You scoff, sticking your nose up and further voicing your discontent at him.

‘Chris- you fucking cheated?!’ You shout with a small laugh in disbelief, your arms crossed over your chest as you refer to his illegal drag collision.

‘No proof? Didn’t happen, sweetheart’ he sassily bites back at you, which makes you falter, but your glare only harshens after he immaturely pokes the centre of your chest.

Does this man just make it his mission to piss you off as much as humanly possible?

Both of you maintain tense eye contact, your chest heaving whilst Chris’ eyes subtly flick downwards to soak in the look of your body.

As more coloured drifters cruise past the finish line, the silence gets awkward, awkward enough for you to spontaneously shouts a shaky ‘I want a fucking rematch!’, not really sure what provoked you to voice this random request. Usually, you couldn’t bear to be around Chris for more than 5 seconds at a time.

So why did you all of a sudden have the urge to be alone with him?

The way you look at him prompts Chris to suspect that this request probably isn’t just about having a rematch, that in fact it’s something much deeper… what that is, he doesn’t know yet, but he’s prepared to find out.

Clearing his throat, he slips a box of cherry scented cigarettes from out of his leather jacket whilst looking around wearily. You swallow, and watch him in silence as he puts one into his mouth and flicks on his lighter. Holding it up to the cherry, it sparks, and a small wisp of smoke puffs out from his pursed mouth.

He opens the door of his Nissan once again before sliding inside.

The scent of maraschino cherries diffuses across his ride and melts into the white leather seats as he shuts his door before using his hand to turn on the ignition. Then, he rolls down his window to thankfully still see you standing there expectantly and waiting for an answer.

Chris simply sits back in his seat, watching the wind comb through your hair as sickly sweet cherry flavoured smoke finds its way up into your nose.

‘Well?’ You raise your eyebrows and snap at him, your hip cocking sassily. But even though your exterior front looks confident, your insides panic and your mouth becomes dry at the very much tangible sexual tension within the air.

Chris looks forward for a second, leaving the both of you in silence once again so that you can take in the far away laughs and clinks of beer bottles from the left over straggling gamblers that are now only talking about Chris.

He squints his eyes with his cigarette still in his mouth, deep in thought, before crinkling his nose and sniffing, reaching his hand out to twist the keys of his car in the ignition properly. His car rumbles to life as he takes out his cigarette, resting it in between his two fingertips.

That arm decides to leans itself on the car door as his wrist and hand dangle out of the window.

‘Meet me at Carolina Point at 3am’

He mumbles to you, as if not wanting anyone else to know about this secret little rendezvous before he’s pushing down the handbrake of his car and it’s lunging forward.

He motors away with a singular hand gripping the steering wheel, turning it smoothly and leaving you with the remnants of his car exhaust fumes, his cherry cigarette butts and the smell of his black and white leather jacket.

᧔♡᧓

It’s 3am.

And music quietly hums from your radio as you pull up next to Chris’ parked car, the glittering red paint job a flashy eyesore when matched with the dark background of the skyline.

Carolina point overlooks a section of the city that is well known by racers like him and yourself and so it provides a nice backdrop for the strange meeting that you two are about to have. Chris sits on the bonnet of his car, looking down to the veins of his city before twisting his neck to observe the way you get out of your own car.

A small smile ticks at the side of his lips before he quickly wipes it away and stands up from his bonnet, the machinery creaking and the suspension bouncing upwards after being released from his weight.

‘Surprised you came’ he muses, before spitting the old toothpick from in between his lips into the long grass.

You roll your eyes and meet him halfway, already nervous about being alone with him in such a close proximity, especially after what had already unfolded between you two beforehand.

‘Course I did, you cheated’ you muse spitefully, and stop right in front of his taller frame. But Chris edges a little bit closer after you had come to a halt, which makes your palms sweat.

You try to keep your composure, fully intent on getting on with the business of the rematch you had wanted, until you fail when you physically watch the way Chris’ eyes dilated at the sight of you.

It makes you nervous to see his body react to you in such a way, and that nervousness only gets worse after he intentionally lowers his voice to purr a quiet ‘oh yeah? An’ how are we gonna fix that hm?’. His head tilts and his tone is as smooth as caramel, the tease almost belittling in manner.

Your chest expands with a stuttering deep breath, the smell of cherries tart on his tongue and overwhelming as the scent stains his jacket too.

Your heart quickens in pace the closer Chris’ head gets to yours, but you don’t move back, even though every siren in your body imaginable screams that this is so terribly fucking wrong.

You blink up at him, almost forgetting why you’re supposed to be here before dumbly stuttering ‘b-by having a rematch…’.

Chris looks at you so hungrily… so primally, and you hardly even get the time to finish your sentence before your mouth is being engulfed by his. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and neither do you.

His lips are soft and buttery as they rub against yours, your whole entire body stiff and your eyes wide, before you ever so slowly melt into his embrace.

Chris utters a quiet whimper of content and the noise almost makes you squeeze your thighs together. You didn’t even realise Chris was capable of making a noise like that.

Your lips smack together after Chris pulls away, saliva wetting the moist pink skin.

You’re trapped within a daze, utterly stunned and drunk on the taste of his mouth. Chris’ eyelashes feather, and he bites his lip in nervousness, testing the waters of what he’s just done to you. But you look as though you’re absolutely enamoured by it and so he grins in satisfaction.

He goes back again, this time more aggressively, to suck and pull on your lips, and you freely let him, not a single thought behind your eyes apart from the way his teeth pull on your flesh.

‘I- I want a rematch’

Chris pulls away just once for you to voice this timid defiance, however his only thought is concerned with how deliciously red and juicy your lips look. He acknowledges you only by dipping back in and pressing another soft kiss to your peachy pillows, humming a little ‘mhm’ in agreement but also not really listening to you as his face twists and his nose brushes against yours.

The wet sound of his lips sucking your plumper ones into his mouth makes your panties dampen.

‘What if I wanna make it up to you in some other way?’ He daringly mumbles against your lips which wets the skin even around them with his saliva. The arch of your back is subtle, but it’s still fully there as you weight up the pros and cons of this situation. But really… are there any cons aside from the afterthought of knowing that you let your sworn enemy touch your body in the most intimate of places?

At the present, it seems like such a small price to pay within the delusion of your lust. And Chris’ hands already feel just so magical when their big impressions carve their way down your waistline, sliding over the bumps of your hips.

Fuck they’re huge in comparison to yours. And that thought alone makes you wet, your folds becoming even slicker at the motion of Chris using his hands to force you up against the hard side of his car.

The metal and glass behind your back makes you shiver and the machinery is freezing cold in the already frosted mountainous air of Carolina point.

This cold suddenly brings you clarity, and for a second you have to fully stop and pull away from his intoxicating tongue, just so you can voice a stupid ‘wait- what are we doing…?’.

Your mind goes reeling and your eyes look like saucers when remembering just who you are kissing… and who is pushing you up against his car.

Your chest heaves and your voice sounds fully strangled, the vision of making out with Chris plaguing your mind and turning it rotten.

But Chris only gazes at you, understanding how weird this must feel, because it feels weird to him too. However he can’t help it, one taste was enough for him and now he’s hooked.

He pushes back into you with haste, his thick hips greedily pinning you to the side of his car as he groans an ‘ugh- fuck it, who even cares anymore?’.

It’s almost like he’s jointly voicing this to his own self control, because he then allows himself to messily paw at the side of his vehicle, frantically looking for the door handle to his back seat whilst fully enthralling himself within your kissing lips.

Your tongues twist, and it’s messy, but you love it just the same. Especially after feeling Chris beneath his baggy black jeans, thick and throbbing for you when he moans in approval at the touch of the door handle.

He curls his fingers into it and yanks it open, the suctioning sound of the door making your heart gallop tenfold because of the connotations that come with Chris forcefully pushing you into the backseat of his car.

Are you two really about to do this? What even happened to get you to this stage?

It all seems like such a blur now, the spontaneity of your actions helping to numb the idea of regret. An idea that you know you’re defintely going to feel in the morning.

But not tonight… tonight is about wandering hands and careless affections, between two people who just so happen to supposedly ‘hate’ each other.

He grabs you with a growled laugh of ‘c’mere’, his large palms splaying underneath your thighs as he hoists you into his arms and walks you around the sharp edges of his red door.

Practically throwing you inside, he’s eager to clamber in himself and restart his torturous decent of your luscious neck skin.

So he does, and he slams the door behind him whilst doing so.

Meanwhile, you spread your legs to let him into you, your ass sinking into the plush white leather of his seats as your back comes to rest against the opposite side door.

Now you’re seeing a completely different Chris, that hovers over you and gives you that toe curling gaze he’s perfected over the many months of first competing with you.

The gaze is reminiscent of the first time you two ever raced together, with a hint of attraction and chemistry there, until you started to hate each other as soon as it became more of a competition to see which one was better.

This Chris is so astronomically different in comparison to the one you had grown to absolutely despise, the two of you stuck in this viciously competitive cycle of building up tension after tension until all of it just burst and ended up with Chris’ head right in between your legs.

He yanks off every single article of clothing wrapped around your lower half, trying to resist the urge of snapping open your underwear and making a mess of the delicate red lace as soon as he sees it.

Fuck. You’re even wearing his racing colours.

‘These for me?’ He teases and raises his eyebrows whilst simultaneously slipping off your panties and lifting them to the side of his face.

Without knowing any better, you smirk and nod, guessing that it’ll drive his narcissism absolutely crazy. And you’re right. Because soon after, he scrunches up the soaked panties into his fist and throws them up to the front of the car. They messily then land on the dashboard.

He smirks down at your shining red cunt, wet stickiness practically drooling from out of your hole already.

‘Imma drive with your panties on the dashboard all the way home so that anyone who seems them will know how good I fucked this pretty little pussy…’

You swallow a pant at his crude language, not being able to help the shake of your hands or the blink of your eyes. ‘Do it… for me?’ You coquettishly breathe back, and it only drives Chris up the wall further. With this being said, he obeys and darts his head down to your centre, wasting no time in peppering small suctioned kisses against your inner thighs.

They quiver as soon as his face gets closer to your centre, and you know he’s just about to put his tongue on you because he smirks, gearing up to say another filthy thing.

‘M’sorry I cheated baby’ he pouts boyishly, before giving your clit an open-mouthed kiss.

You whine and buck your hips up into the firm hold of his rough hands, that have slid around to force you down and keep you from squirming away at his stimulation. ‘Forgive me?’ He speaks with his head tilted. Then a thick globule of spit comes tumbling from his mouth to plink onto your throbbing heat.

It greedily rolls down your pinkness and Chris goes in for another heavy kiss, this time closing his eyes to eat you like his life depended on it, licking around you clit and even dipping himself into your hole. He’s not sure when he’ll next get the chance to fuck you like this and so savours it with as much fever as he possibly can.

All the while, you lie with your back propped up against the opposite door, looking down at him with your calves smoothly slung around his shoulders.

You hypnotically watch how your thighs twitch at every opportunity Chris gives you, his tongue rolling over several pleasure points in an effort to get you to come.

‘Mmm-okay’ you moan before bitting your hand and mumbling through your teeth ‘I forgive you, please- please just let me cum’.

He had been savouring this for a while now, leisurely dipping his tongue in and out of you whenever he felt like it as he pressed his other palm over the thick bulge in his jeans, trying to suppress its ache by kneading it downwards and squeezing himself.

He struggles not to openly thrust his hips into his hand at the tiny whimpers you make, because you sound so pretty trying to reach your high.

He sighs before giving you one last rolling kiss. ‘I guess that’s only fair, alright I’ll let you cum sweetheart’.

Straight after he says this you let out a heaved ‘Jesus Christ!’, your cry brandishing tears within your eyes as one of Chris’ long fingers unexpectedly slide right up into your throbbing cunt, your precome already acting as natural lubricant to coat his skin.

It’s almost mouthwatering how good it feels, for both you and Chris. His finger seems to fit in there perfectly, and so he adds another, stroking your walls and curling them upwards delicately.

‘Can you fit three in there baby…? Please let me put three in… you look pretty when you’re drooling for my fingers’ he whines, his voice high pitched and begging for you to allow him the pleasure of three.

‘Fuck- yes, please, please put three in. I can handle it!’ You moan in desperation, not really knowing what to do with your hands, so one feeds itself into his luscious brown locks whilst the other one curls around the white leather headrest of the back seat you’re sitting on.

You white knuckle it when Chris effortlessly coos ‘there’s a good girl… gonna make you feel so good’ whilst inserting his third finger, its length making your back arch and the windows of the car fog up.

‘Look at you… fucking up the back of my car, needy girl’ Chris muses whilst observing the way some of your wetness leaks out and blobs onto his nice white leather seats, the condensation of your horny breath staining the windows and your hand practically clawing at his headrest whilst his fingers work inside of you.

‘S-shut up. You wreck the outside of my car, I’ll wreck the inside of yours’ you bite back sassily, your whole entire chin tipping back in ecstasy as you feel your orgasm clawing beneath the lining of your gut.

Chris’ fingers speed their pace at this, and the squelch of them working past your screaming orgasm nearly makes him cum all over himself within his pants, especially after hearing your continuous moan at the motion his harsh fingertip thrusts.

After you calm, you careen forward to grip onto the wrist of his hand, tapping out immediately in overstimulation. He pulls his sopping wet fingers from out of your core and then lollipops them into his mouth.

As you sit there and regain your breath, your cheeks redden impossibly further at Chris’ quipped demand of ‘take off your top’, still with his fingers bitten in between his teeth.

You do as he says, watching him pull his hand back out of his mouth with hooded eyes as you peel off the tight fabric.

He doesn’t even have to tell you to take off your bra either, you just do it, giving him the gorgeous sight of your tits resting on your chest.

‘This good enough for you?’ you tease, letting one of the straps from your bra slide down your pointer finger before tossing it next to your already discarded panties that sit upon his dashboard.

Chris blinks at your devilish action in shock, before putting a smirk back onto his handsome face.

‘Oh I am going to fuckin’ destroy you’ he cackles playfully, before curling his hands around the backs of your thighs and pulling your body to lay down horizontally.

You gulp as you tilt your chin upwards, watching the way he pulls his jeans and his underwear down with his gleaming cock springing up to hit his lower abdomen.

Licking your lips, you have to squeeze your thighs together at the sight of it as he then turns towards you and advances forward, with his lower half bare and his racer jacket and black t-shirt still in tact over his top half.

His pulsing cock stands on end, and he bites his bottom lip whilst clambering over your thighs to get to your stomach, much to your utter confusion.

That is, until you realise why he asked you to take your top off in the first place.

Planting his knees on either side of your underarms, they sink into his plush leather as he towers over you, grinning at your heaving chest. From his height advantage, he gathers a jewel of spit into his mouth and tips his head forward, allowing it to ooze outwards and splash against the valley in between your tits.

You swallow at this, watching as he then shuffles downwards and leans the head of his dripping prick onto the puddle of saliva he had created.

‘Push your pretty tits together sugar’.

Now when using this nickname, it sounds sickly sweet instead of full of malice, coated with a thin layer of cherry sauce as his cheeky grin perfectly mirrors the cheeky action of him using his hands to help you squeeze the sides of your tits together.

Your skin feels sticky with Chris’ spit and Chris lets out the ungodliest of groans when pushing his tip forcefully into the crack between them.

You hiss in pain at the feeling of Chris’ cock wedged against your tits, but bite your lip and ignore it in favour of watching the way he fucks his hips into them.

His pink head disappears in and out of the top opening and he has to fall forward and grip his hands onto the door to keep himself steady. He ruts himself faster with the added security and his car begins to shake at the aggressive motion.

He had done the majority of building up his orgasm whilst eating you out, so now all he had to do was finish it off, and what better way to do that than with his cock buried in between your tits?

‘Fuck Chris-’ you mumble with your mouth dropped open and your eyes glued to the way small drips of precum already leak out from his cock onto the flushed skin of your chest.

‘Ugh- I’m… I’m cumming- fuck- open your m-mouth’ Chris moans into the air, squeezing his eyes shut as the elastic band of his orgasm snaps and forces cum to come squirting out of his head, some of the sticky white liquid coating your chest, but the other half of it finding its way into your open mouth.

You wait for Chris to milk himself dry, your tongue still out expectantly, until he sees that you’re wanting permission to swallow it.

To help you, he reaches out one of his tremouring fingertips to gather up the cum smeared over your chin, then he slides them into your mouth.

You suck on them, swallowing all of what he has to give you with a tired but appreciative hum as he looks down at you with glassy eyes of complacency.

What the fuck just happened between you two… and why did he feel like he wanted to do it all over again?

᧔♡᧓

‘You still really not gonna pay for any of the scrapes you gave my car huh?’ You speak up into the awkward silence as Chris shuts the back door of his Nissan, leaving the smell of sex to permeate within his car.

He lights one of his cigarettes and snorts, trudging his way around to the front of his car before yanking the door open, your bra and panties still resting on the dashboard and yourself still very much naked underneath your regular clothes.

‘In your dreams sugar’.

There’s another silence as the two of you just look at each other, not knowing if whether or not you’ll ever see each other in that kind of vulnerable light again.

One thing is for sure though, no one can ever know about what happened here tonight.

Chris looks almost hesitant to go with his face softening and smoke tumbling from out of the red cherry of his cigarette. He blinks to snap himself out of it though.

‘Cya at the next race baby…’

He tips his head and then slides down into his car as you look at him wantonly.

‘Yeah… cya’.

᧔♡᧓

Author’s notes p.2: hot. RIVAL RACERS AND ENEMIES TO LOVERS TROPE OH YEAHHH. This is defintely the longest fucking thing I’ve done so I apologise for that lol. And I’m also equally sorry for the ridiculously long wait omg, I’ve been hyping this up too much so I’m sorry if it’s not that great bc most of it was written on major sleep deprivation haha. Also guysss exciting stuff is happening as I’m almost at 2,000 followers and me and @luv4kozume have got something really fun planned for us both hitting 2k!!

Taglist: @luverboychris @lovingmattysposts @luvmila444 @luv4kozume @stursweet @strniohoeee @strawberrysturniolo @thesturniolos @sturniolosreads @vecnasnose0 @meanttomeet @ellie-luvsfics @matthemunch @mattsleftnipple03 @robins-scoop @asturniolos @imwetforyourmom @nicksmainbitch @sturnioloenthusiast @breeloveschris @kvtie444 @rootbeerworshiper @chr1sgirl4life @hrt-attack @gigisworldsstuff @stargirlsturniololover @imlidewwallyhittingdagwiddy @sturniololoverr @jahlisa22 @bernardsgf @luvasr @meg-sturniolo @blahbel668 @liz-stxrn @sturnreblog @ratatioulle @isabellehoran @1800chokedathoe @sturnsmadl @sturniolossmut @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattswifey00 @sturniolowhore @skadltmf @sturniolosstar @luvsturns @mattestrella @hearts4chriss @orangeypepsi

[ferrariregina]

dangerous liaisons | ln4 × sainz!reader

pairing: lando norris × sainz!reader

warning: 16+, implication of sex, slight mention of manipulation

summary: your brother, carlos didn't care about what you did at the paddock when accompanying him at his races as long as you stayed away from the drivers and their flirty antics. little did he know of your late-night rendezvous with his best friend, lando.

"stay out of trouble and stay away from the drivers," your elder brother carlos frequently muttered before dragging you to another one of his races. as long as you generally maintained a low profile, away from the impulsive pranks and flirtatious antics of the adrenaline-charged racers, he didn't care much about what you did at the paddock. carlos was confident about your sensible nature. little did he know, you had an affinity for bending the rules.

how ironic it was, that while he feared you falling for some ladies' man, you already had his best friend lando wrapped around your finger. funny, how he never noticed, not even when lando's eyes began following you around like a hawk watching its prey, or when his laughter rang out loudest at your jokes.

carlos, as much as you loved him, was just as clueless as any other old-fashioned protective sibling. the existence of your secret relationship with lando was something he probably couldn't even fathom.

after all, you and lando were experts at covering your tracks. the late-night rendezvous, those whispered conversations, the knowing smiles, and those oh-so-many incidents in lando's room before the race. carlos didn’t have a whiff.

just like a race car driver, you knew how to play with fire. manipulation was an art and you were an artist. the way you played lando, how you had him wrapped around your finger. he was completely unaware, thinking it was he who had the upper hand.

you grinned as you watched lando strut towards you from across the paddock. he stopped before he reached you, glancing surreptitiously at your unassuming brother before taking the final steps. your heart rate may have jumped just a bit.

"hey," lando dropped his voice to a whisper as he nudged you lightly with his elbow.

you smiled back at him casually as if nothing was going on. "hey yourself," you replied in an equally low voice.

carlos was nonchalant, busy ribbing one of the other drivers about a mistake he'd made in the last race. good old carlos. blind to the world around him.

"later okay?" lando murmured before he disappeared back into the crowd.

you simply nodded, knowing very well what he was insinuating. the adrenaline rush of the race, the shared dangerous secret, carlos blissfully ignorant of it all.

later, you found yourself in lando's room. amidst the smell of worn leather and motor oil, your heart fluttered erratically as he ran his fingers through your hair, his cerulean gaze fixed on you, filled with silent promises and unspoken words. the walls of the room, if they could talk, would recount a tale of burning desires and smothered moans. it was your refuge, a place where you defied your brother's rule, deeply woven into the sweet secrecy of your relationship with lando.

you found solace in the mischief of lando's smile and comfort in his musky scent during the intimate encounters in his room. in a world full of roaring engines, sweaty racers and heated competitions, you found your sanctuary in lando's mystifying gaze.

every race day, when carlos was obsessively engrossed in the mechanical symphony of engines, you and lando stole some more of these moments.

moments varying from quick pecks on the cheeks to passionate expressions of affection behind closed doors. somehow, carlos remained oblivious to the racing heartbeats and the unexplained disappearances.

perhaps his ignorance was a blessing in disguise. for though he was a good brother, he was also a fiercely protective one. such a revelation would surely set off an explosive reaction; maybe even affect his performance on the track or, worse, their friendship. but for now, you enjoyed living on the edge, a secret lover immersed in the adrenaline-soaked world of race tracks and high-speed romance.

for now, you reveled in the thrill of breaking rules and living life at your own pace, knowing full well that at some point, the race would have to end. and when it did, you hoped that the harsh reality wouldn’t shatter the beautiful illusion you lived in with lando.

a/n: the singaporegp made all the creative juices flow out of me hence these many content. can't promise I'll be posting this much after tomorrow but make sure to leave your opinions! I'm still open for requests!

xoxo

[dsiiress]

DRIFTS

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

this is an original work and was written and published by @dsiires on tumblr. this is my work, do not steal.

cw!!- fushiguro toji x f!reader, streetracing au, hate sex, light degradation, pet names, cunnilingus, piv, car sex (in a way?), slight exhibitionism, squirting, edging, toji being an ass (not surprisingly), cumeating, mdni, 3.5k words!

Every since your youth, you knew racing was your calling. Whenever your father would take you to car meets, the loud music and engines revving were never something you could shy away from. It drew you in, influencing your adolescent mind. Your mother absolutely hated the idea of her only daughter engaging in such masculine activities, saying that “no girl could become a racer, let alone a street racer at that!” But even then, her discouraging words left no effect on you, only driving your will to prove her wrong..

“Hey, there she is! Where were you, we almost started without you..” an annoyingly familiar voice faded into your ears as you hopped out of your car. The white haired male strutted up behind you and gave you a tight hug. Gojo Satoru, your childhood best friend, and your number one supporter since you started racing. He was there for you when no one else was, so even though he could be considered the most annoying specimen on earth, he wasn’t always that bad. His strong cologne abused your nose (he sprayed A LOT) as you successfully managed to pull away.

“Oh please, like you’d really start without me. Real funny, Satoru!” You playfully smacked his shoulder. He winced, then flashed a cheesy grin to show he was alright. It was a Friday night, and the sun had just finished setting on the horizon. There were a ton of people who had shown up tonight, mostly racers from other districts. You were no professional (yet), but your racing was top-notch. Almost every race you participated in, you had won. And not just that, you were exceptionally beautiful as well, which drew people in even more. Being talented and attractive made you gain popularity quickly, you were practically a micro celebrity.

“Angel come on, me and Suguru have some news for you!” Gojo urged you, dragging you to the warehouse. Angel. That’s what your nickname was. Well, around here atleast.

You entered the warehouse, the smell of marijuana, alcohol and oil wafting around. You spotted Suguru Geto, sitting at one of the vacant tables and chatting with one of his colleagues. He glanced at you and flagged you down with his hand, grinning.

“Yo, angel. It’s been a while, how you been?” His deep voice spoke unto you. His dark half-lidded eyes stared you up and down, examining your body.

“I’ve been well, and you?”

“Good. Missed you..” The dark haired male replied slyly. Getos arms were decorated with tattoos, his most recent dragon tattoo sticking out the most. You could make out another on his neck, but it was quite a challenge to figure out what it was.

“I know you did..” You said, rolling your eyes at his remark. It was true, even though you and Geto were mutual friends through Satoru, you barely saw each other. Which to you, wasn’t a problem. But for Suguru, it was. He had intensively strong feelings for you, admiring you since he first laid eyes on you. But unfortunately for him, everyone else could see it but you.

“SORRY.. to interrupt your flirting, but I thought we were supposed to tell her about tonight..” Satoru advised impatiently. “He’s right, my apologies angel. Instead of racing one of the locals, you’ve been challenged by one of Tokyo's best streetracers..”

“..Toji Fushiguro.”

Your eyes widened, obviously taken aback. “The Toji Fushiguro?! As in, Japan’s finest? The ex-NASCAR driver?!” You gasped. The two men infront of you nodded, noticing your demeanor change, exchanging a quick look between one another. You were under pressure before, so this shouldve been a walk in the park. I mean, if he’s coming to challenge you, then that obviously means your work is atleast somewhat exceptional compared to himself. You calmed yourself down, not wanting to lose your composure.. “When is he coming?”

“Oh, he should be arriving…” Satoru took a quick glance at his phone, “Right now, actually!” He confirmed, and as if on cue, you could hear the crowd outside chanting. The music grew louder, and you could hear the revving of a car's engine. “Let’s go, you two. We haven’t got all night.” Suguru said as he beckoned you and Gojo to follow behind him outside. As soon as you stepped out, you saw him, leaning next to his car. It was a matte black Nissan Silvia S15, and it was the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Your mind fixated along every detail on his car, eyes glued to it.

“Like whatcha see, princess?” Toji spoke, his voice much deeper and huskier than Getos. You looked up at him, examining his tall, muscular figure. His muscles were bulging out of his sleeves, waist adorned with chiseled abs that were visible through his shirt. You turned your gaze upwards, his forest green eyes pooling into yours. His soft, pink, plump lips were curved into a smile, and his signature scar accessorized it. You felt your face get hot, which made Toji let out a chuckle.

“I’m messing with ya, love. I’m assuming youre the one they call ‘angel’?” He inquired. You nodded, a smile easing its way onto your face. “I can see why…Anyways, I saw what I’m assuming is your car? Sure is a beaut.” Toji said, nodding his head towards the direction of your vehicle. It was a cream white Nissan 180sx, decorated with stickers, and a custom license plate that said ‘ANG31’.

“Thanks.. so um, what brings you around here?” You asked, curiously. Part of you felt like Satoru & Suguru were messing with you, so you had to know if it was true. “Tsk, they say youre one of the best around these parts.. had to see it for myself.” He shrugged, gazing off into the crowd of people. They were chattering amongst one another, anxiousness filling the air as they awaited the competition between you two. The sharp, stinging, sound of the whistleblowing pierced your ears, signaling it was time to bring your vehicles to the starting line.

You slipped into your car, revving your engine, driving it up to the poorly red spray painted start line. Toji soon drove up next to you and rolled his window down. “You ready, princess?” He taunted.

“To beat your ass? Heh- hell yeah.”

“Nah….ready to lose.” He grinned confidently, rolling his window back up. You scoffed at his cockiness, rolling your eyes. You kept your eyes on the road ahead of you, waiting for the blonde haired woman to signal your start. Even with your car windows being shut, you could still hear the crowd behind the barricades, cheering the two of you on. It felt like a dream, racing against one of the most talented professional drivers in the world, and having a support system to cheer you on, even if you lost.

Your adrenaline surged, and you leaned forward in your car, eyes fixed on the starting line. Heart pounding in your chest, you revved the engine, feeling the rumble of power beneath yourself. The woman infront of you shot the starting gun, and you both were off.

With a burst of acceleration, you shot forward, leaving Fushiguro behind, ready to give it your all. You sped down the long road, Toji tailing behind you. It was dark and winding, but you knew the turns like the back of your hand, since you had been on this same road many times before. You leaned into each one, feeling the tires squeak against the pavement, the car flying over the bumps and potholes.

You glanced into your side-view mirror, not seeing your opponent’s headlights.

uh-oh.

You then heard the sound of a beeping car horn next to you. It was him. He signaled for you to roll down your window. You did, while simultaneously trying to earn your place back in the lead.

“You thought I’d let you go that easy, angel?” He jeered, laughing. “I’m not letting anyone, especially not some girl, take my place.” And with that, he sped away, blowing off smoke behind him. Banter wasn’t uncommon during races, but this one hit a little hard. You swore to yourself to not let your feelings take over while driving, but you couldnt take it. You slammed your foot on the gas as hard as you could, determined to prove him wrong. You tried to think of a way to distract him…but how? An idea popped into your head, and while it wasn’t the most appropriate, you were 95% sure it would work.

The competition was fierce, with neither driver wanting to give an inch. The two of you flew down the road, trading positions, trying to find an opening. But as you neared the finish line, you rolled your window down, pulling up next to Toji. “Hey! Like whatcha see?” You teased, while your opponent took a glance at you, a shocked expression now on his face. Sitting back down and rolling your window up once more, you accelerated off, leaving him in the dust.

Tojis mind went cloudy as he registered what just happened. You…flashed your tits at him?! What the hell was that about? He shook his head, returning back to reality. He continued racing, not realizing you were long gone ahead of him.

Bursting out of the alley, you crossed the finish line first. At first it was quiet, but the cheering and celebration surrounded you as you pulled up to a stop. Getting out of the car, Gojo and Geto greeted you in awe.

“You did it?! I mean, you did it! How? What? This is- This is crazy!” Satoru blabbered on while Suguru handed you some water. As you chugged it down, Tojis car soon pulled up behind you. Stepping out of his vehicle, he sneered while walking up to you. His face had a crude expression on it, glaring at you darkly. “Good job.” He quickly plastered on a fake smile for the camera while shaking your hand, having a deadly grip on it. “Thanks!” You smiled coyly, because even though his face looked like it despised you, the bulge in his pants surely didn’t.

——————————————————————————

Weeks had passed since the “event”, though it remained to be the talk of the town. Plenty of interviewers and news anchors and been knocking at your apartment door, asking, pleading, begging for you to let them in on your “technique.” The 15 minutes of fame felt nice, but soon was overbearing.

Surfing through the channels on television, your phone lit up, vibrating your familiar ringtone against the table. It came from an unknown number, which raised your suspicions. You put on your best “professional” voice and reluctantly picked up. “Hello, who’s this?”

“Don’t tell me ya forgot ‘bout me already, princess. Hm, you let the fame get to your pretty little head?” the gruff voice mocked, the familiarity of the voice revealed the mystery person’s identity. It was Toji.

“Oh Fushiguro, I didn’t recognize your voice at first, m’sorry..” you briefly apologized, relieved that it wasn’t yet another TV show host requesting your appearance. “Yer good, save the apologies for later. Speaking of later.. would you mind stopping by my place for a bit? ‘Been something I need to talk to ya about.” Great. Just when you thought you were escaping the interrogations.But instead of denying you surprisingly agreed, obviously speaking before you thought.

Which ultimately led you to standing on his doorstep anxiously. The exterior of his house was simple and plain, nothing too extravagant. The yard was well kept with a few neatly trimmed rose bushes decorating it. You knocked on the door, hearing a muffled voice reply, “Coming, hold on.” The door swung ajar, Tojis face meeting yours. There was a brief pause, a weird tenseness surrounding you two. “You gonna invite me in or what?” You implored.

He frowned, giving you a nasty look. He joined you on his porch, closing the door behind him. “Nah, don’t think I should. Especially not after that little stunt you pulled.” The tall man towered over you, scowling darkly. “You think you can just waltz into my house, after humiliating me? Making me lose, like some kind of fuckin amateur. Can’t even watch TV without seein some news reporter sayin I’m ‘outdated’.” Toji snarled. His once light green eyes were now tainted a sinful viridescent. He backed you into the wall, and grabbed your face with one of his big hands, making you look up at him. A small mewl escaped your lips in the process, making your face flush completely.

“Look at you, you like that? You like a big strong man bein rough with you?” Toji growled. Lowering your head, you went silent, avoiding eye contact with the man above you.

“Answer me, girl.” He grunted, forcing your doey eyes to look at him once more.

“Y-yes sir!” You blurted out embarrassingly, earning a grin from Toji. “You wearin a skirt and everything. What, you expected me to fuck you? Slut…” Toji kneeled beneath you and proceeded to lift up the skirt you had worn. “Tsk, no panties either? I was just joking

“W-what are you doing?! Someone could see…” you said uneasily. It was true, even though it was dark, the dim street lamps in front of his house illuminated the streets, and he was doing this on his front porch where any passerby could see.

“You humiliated me, so now it’s your turn. Think of this as my get back.” You felt a warm sensation on your cunt, the man’s mouth had latched onto your pussy. His tongue flicked and lapped at your flowing juices, surprised at how quickly you had gotten aroused. He grabbed onto your plush thighs, leaving a few bruises from how hard his grasp was on you. You cooed, his tongue felt otherworldly, circling the small sensitive bud of your clit.

He was so sloppy with it, lewd slurps filling the void of quietness outside as he lolled his tongue out, licking a long stripe down your pussy. You groaned, the immense pleasure making your legs jitter in excitement. Toji sucked and sucked away, like a child with a lollipop, trying to reach the gummy center. Your savory juices covered the man’s stubbly chin, the little prickles tickling your thighs. The band in your stomach tightened, signaling you were close to cumming.

“Ah- sir..m’close, I’m s’close..” you poorly managed to husk out as Tojis licks got more intense. He could tell, but where’s the fun in letting you cum now, when he wasn’t even close to being done with you yet? He’d make you wait, that’s much more amusing for him. Toji pulled away, leaving you confused and frustrated. He smiled smugly at your twisted expression, quite clearly amused at how much power he had over you in these moments. Abruptly, Toji lifted you up (like it was nothing) and threw you over his shoulder, your bare ass revealed to anyone who was close enough to see.

“Put me down! What are you doing?” You protested, squirming in the man’s arms. Toji smacked your behind, a stinging pain flowed through your body. “Shut yer mouth, yeah?” He uttered as he transported you to what looked like his garage. Without placing you down, he pressed a button, and a loud machinery noise followed, the garage door becoming ajar. He carried you towards his car, then promptly dropped you on your feet.

“Bend over.” He commanded. You looked around, confused. The only place you could lean on was…

“On the car.” Toji rolled his eyes and scoffed, similarly to a teenage girl. You did as he told, bending over as a chilly breeze brushed past your underside. Toji stood close behind you, his clothes crotch brushing against yours, lips close to your ears. “You feel that? Huh? Feel how hard y’makin me…” He purred into your ear as he grinded on your ass, groaning softly. You heard the small unzipping of his pants, shuffling and his breath hitching in your ear.

The foreign feeling of his tip brushed past your folds, pulsing right against the entrance of your hole. He slowly slid his inches inside of you, little by little. You winced in pain, he was so big you felt like you were going to split in two. Your jaw fell open as Toji broke through your walls, stretching you around him. Fat, salty, tears rolled down your cheeks uncontrollably as he continued to go deeper. “Damn, yer so tight, princess. You like how m’stretchin you out, it feels good?” He whispered into your ear, watching you struggle to take his length.

“Y-yeah, feels s’good Toji..” you cried from beneath him. The palm of his hand and your ass quickly met as the man snarled, “What did you call me?”

“S-sir! Feels good, sir…” you whined.

“That's more like it, good girl. Yeah, take all of my cock, like the whore you are” Toji smirked. He slowly started to move in and out of your entrance, panting from how hard you were clenching around him. He continued these slow strokes momentarily, then started to move faster. The sounds of each others skin slapping were all you could hear, and you were certain anyone who was near could hear you too. Tojis strokes were now rougher and meaner, his girthy member pounding deeper and deeper in you, stretching you out. The once pain was now an erotic pleasure as you felt the man bulging inside your sweet spot, his merciless rhythm making you cock-drunk. The pair of your moans mixed together to make a harmonious sound, Tojis deep grunts contrasting with your higher pitched cries.

You felt Tojis hands creep their way to your chest, lifting your shirt to reveal your bare tits. “Been missin these…” the man behind you said as he toyed with your breasts, flicking your nipples and tracing around them. A gasp left your mouth as he did so, his cold, rigid hands making you even more sensitive. Toji sucked on the nape of your neck while simultaneously playing with your tits, leaving slight purplish marks behind.

“What happened to all that talk? Did I fuck the thoughts outta ya, angel?” He asked, moving his hands to your hips to steady himself, letting your boobs bounce freely. All you could do was nod dumbly, making a chuckle slip from Tojis scar-ridden lips. The cocky girl who made him seem like a fool, made him lose in front of hundreds of people, was bending over and submitting to him at his will.

You felt the reoccurring, creeping, feeling of your high approaching, determined to reach it this time. Toji was close too, you could tell by his sloppier strokes and hitching breaths. “F-fuck, yer milkin’ me dry, princess..m’gonna cum..” he croaked out. “Me too, s-sir.”

“Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock, like the slut you are? Hm, princess?” He teased while his tip brushed back and forth against your g-spot, making you even more sensitive than before.

“Y-yes, please, please, please…” you pleaded mindlessly as you rode out your high, the sweet blissful feeling of your release gracing your body. Toji groaned as he thrusted once more, his essence exploding from his tip, stuffing your pussy to the brim with his heavy, creamy load. He leaned on your back as his chest heaved, warm breath tickling the back of your neck. Pulling out, Toji let out a loud groan, your legs shaking in the process from the removal of his member. “Fuck, you made such a mess f’me..” he remarked, gazing drunkily at the sight. “Let’s get you cleaned up..”

The familiar warm feeling of Tojis mouth found your sensitive clit. His tongue explored deep inside your hole, licking up the mess the two of you had made just a few minutes prior. The lewd sucking and slurping sounds rung in your ears as your legs stuttered, the heat of his tongue laving away at your taste. “Ya taste s’good with my cum inside you.” He said as he spread your cheeks wider, desperate and determined to clean up all of you, inside and out. One of his long thick fingers were soon inserted inside of your sloppiness, squelching as he curved deep inside, exploring you.

His tongue and finger felt like pure ecstasy, both messily maneuvering in and on your pussy. You felt your self getting close once again, but this time was different. It felt different from all of your previous orgasms. Tojis finger brushed along a particular spot one too many times, resulting in a clear liquidy essence to spurt from your cunt. You let out a harsh cry, the feeling making your legs quiver as you almost fell on your knees to the ground.

“First time squirtin’, hm princess?” Toji allured, wiping his mouth from the dirty mess you made. You had squirted?! You nodded drowsily, all the energy you had before obviously drained from you. The man behind you stood up and steadied you, seeing how weak you had become just from his actions. He held you in quietness, for a brief minute until you broke the silence.

“Toji…y’know how you told me earlier, on the phone, you needed to ask me somethin’?”

“Yeah?”

“W-what was it?”

“Oh, I..”

He was quickly cut off by the sound of bushes rustling, and the two of you watched in horror as you saw an all black figure jogging away from their hiding spot, which was a bush not too far from the garage. Someone was eavesdropping on the two of you the whole time.

“W-We’re fucked.” Your breath shaking in terror.

“No. You’re fucked.”

——————————————————————————

a/n- literally and figuratively LMAOOO. ANYWAYS this idea came to me in a dream, and can you tell i know little to nothing about streetracing be honest 🌝. also, i might make this into a series, can’t leave my lovelies on a cliffhanger. i hope you guys enjoyed this, it took me FOREVER. 🤧

xo, dsiires

[thesightstoshowyou]

Shoot for the Moon

Bo Sinclair X GN Reader

Warnings: None. Just fluff. Who am I?

~~

Keys jingle as you cut the engine. The thrum ceases and a moment of tranquil silence passes before the nighttime sounds rise to life all around. Crickets and frogs chirp, night herons splash, a barred owl calls. Cypress, oak, and maple trees creak and rustle in a gentle breeze. Car door hinges squeal as you slip from your vehicle and your boots swish in tall grasses as you make your way to the trunk.

Carefully, you unpack the telescope, flashlight, guides, and notepads. The scents of damp earth and decaying wood wash over you as you move. Already, the oppressive Louisiana humidity sticks your hair to your forehead, yet you wear a jacket and jeans to protect your limbs from mosquitos and ticks.

Satisfied with a small, nearby clearing, you meticulously set up your equipment. You peek through the eye piece and adjust the telescope’s position incrementally. Little flashlight clutched between your teeth, you scratch notes on the illuminated portion of paper before repeating the process.

An hour or so in, you abruptly surface from the lull of peaceful concentration. At first, you’re not certain what distracts you, but then you recognize the silence. All the wildlife has gone quiet, disturbed by something close by.

You frown and quiet your own breath, tilting your head to listen intently. To your left, a sharp snap; twigs underfoot. Something stalks through the brush, just out of sight.

A bear, maybe, or a stray dog. Your mind whirs with the possibilities, but you will yourself to stay calm. Nothing you can’t handle.

However, when a man emerges from the tree line, your heart stutters. Fear and confusion take root in your brain and you must consciously fight back the panic to keep your thoughts clear.

Where the hell had he come from? There isn’t a town or house around for miles, as far as you’re aware. You’d carefully chosen this particular spot for that very reason.

The man saunters toward you, hands buried in the pockets of the deep blue coveralls he wears. His pace is leisurely, every step measured and deliberate, meant to instill dread. You can’t make out the details of his face through the gloom and the cap perched atop his head does you no favors.

“Yer out here awfully late,” he notes, the pleasant drawl of his voice disturbing the hush of the clearing. He nods toward the crescent moon hanging low in the sky as though you need his help to tell it’s nighttime.

“Could say the same about you,” you respond, slipping the flashlight into your palm. You could blind him if he gets too close.

He stops his advance about twenty feet away, head tilting slightly as he studies you and your equipment. “Folks out this late don’t often have the best intentions.”

Pot, meet kettle. You resist the urge to call him out and instead motion to your telescope. “Just star gazing. I wasn’t aware this was private property. I’ll go—

“Nah, s’not private. Yer good, sugar.” He takes a few steps closer. The muscles in your shoulders tense. You swallow thickly, mind racing. What now?

You speak before you can stop yourself, “I, uh, I just found Saturn. It’s nice and clear tonight. Wanna see?” The man stops abruptly, obviously taken aback. He’s silent for a moment, contemplating.

“…Yer serious?” he questions. His steps are tentative now, cautious. You caught him off guard, it seems.

Roll with it. “Yeah!” You wave him over and allow the excitement to take control of your vocal cords, “And the Milky Way is so pretty right now. We can look at that next….”

He’s close enough now that you can make out the incredulous expression on his face…his very handsome face. The scents of engine oil, burnt grease, and metal hit you and the outfit suddenly makes sense. Still, you question why he’s out for a midnight stroll in such a remote area wearing his work garb.

You scoot out of the way and instruct him to look through the eye piece. He shoots you one more skeptical glance before carefully leaning over and peering into the telescope. You smell him now too: Cigarette smoke, faint aftershave, and woody musk that is not at all unpleasant.

You watch the exact moment the man spots the planet. What you can see of his face lights up and he shifts his body in toward the telescope, hunching more to get a better angle through the eyepiece. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs, hand coming up and hovering over the finderscope, hesitant to touch. You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face.

“So beautiful, right? Do you see the rings?”

“Sure do,” he replies, straightening and flashing you a hesitant, crooked smile. Your thoughts are almost derailed by the charm of it, but the eagerness to teach keeps you grounded.

“Here, scooch over a sec, lemme just readjust it….” You quickly check your notes then fiddle with the telescope. You’re overly aware of the man standing next to you, but he surprises you with polite silence, hands on his hips, apparently content to watch you work.

“Here, look,” you excitedly tell him as soon as it’s adjusted. With a quizzical expression, he leans down again, though there’s more enthusiasm in his movement this time.

“…What am I lookin’ at?” he asks, glancing over at you expectantly.

You giggle and mutter a quick, “Oh right,” before launching into an explanation. You gesture and describe, the animation in your voice and knowledge on the subject captivating the stranger.

He watches you speak with a mixture of admiration and bemusement on his face, like he can’t believe he’s listening so attentively, but doesn’t want to miss a word. All previous tension evaporates as you show him the charts you’ve drawn and move the telescope to and fro.

“Oh, and you should be able to see Phobos right now—

“What’s yer name, darlin’?” the man interrupts suddenly. You glance up at him and realize just how close he stands. Your shoulder brushes his chest, his body heat palpable. You’re glad for the darkness when your cheeks burn.

You do your best not to trip over your own name when he smirks, sudden shyness drying your throat and making your heart skip a beat. There’s irritation there too, annoyance with his smugness. You’re easier to read than you’d hoped, apparently.

“Bo,” he tells you as he holds out his hand. You turn to face him and accept his outstretched palm. It is then you notice your watch.

“Oh christ, it’s late. I really gotta go!”Hurriedly, you gather up your notes and pack away your equipment. Bo watches quietly and you can tell by the way he stands so stock still that he’s contemplating something.

You don’t give him a chance to decide on whatever it was he was planning when he entered the clearing.

“I, uh…I was gonna come back on Thursday if, you know, if you wanted to learn more.” Bo blinks at you, genuine surprise on his face. You’re just as shocked by your own words. Offering to meet a strange man with questionable intentions, alone, in the middle of rural Louisiana to teach him amateur astronomy?

Have you lost your damn mind?

Yet, the way he’d engaged with the subject and how eagerly he listened makes you think there’s something more to this man. The initial trajectory of your meeting had changed, hadn’t it? There was a spark, a yearning for connection. He wants to learn, and you want to teach.

That, or you’re completely delusional.

“Next Thursday?” You nod at his question. He tips his head again, like he’s thinking. Slipping his hands back into his pockets, he shrugs. “I can try and make it.”

**

He does make it on Thursday. You do too. And again on Saturday. And the following Friday. And Monday.

Sunday finds you seated on a blanket, Bo at your side, flashlight in your mouth and pen in had. Around you, the nighttime creatures sing their songs. Your trusty telescope points to the sky, ready to capture the comet you’re tracking.

You’re relaxed in his presence now. You’ve decided to attribute your initial meeting to simple chance. He hasn’t given you a reason not to trust him, and you’re not going to look for one.

Your name murmured in a hushed and careful tone breaks your reverie. You hum in response before lowering the flashlight and glancing up. The look in Bo’s baby blues freezes you in place and brings heat to your cheeks.

He’s closer than you anticipated. He removed his hat at some point and his dark hair is ruffled like he hastily ran his fingers through it. That self-satisfied smirk you tell yourself you hate pulls at the side of his mouth and there’s warmth in his eyes as they trace the curve of your lips.

“Been tryin’ t’kiss ya for the past ten minutes,” he teases, his hand reaching out to playfully flick the pen in your hand. You release a breathy laugh as your heart flutters in your chest like a trapped bird.

“Oh, um…s-sorry,” is all you can manage, mouth curving in a weak smile. Your teeth worry your bottom lip when Bo slides closer to cradle your face in his palms.

“Looks like I finally get t’teach ya somethin’ huh?” he jokes, lips ghosting across yours.

You huff, “Oh shut up,” but there’s no real bite to your words. Bo chuckles affectionately and smoothes his thumbs over your hair.

His next words are soft, the vulnerability in them meant only for your ears. “You been real sweet, darlin’. Ain’t nobody taught me anythin’ like you.”

“Oh,” you breathe, moved by his admission. The gratitude in it warms you deep in your chest. Bo wrinkles his nose.

“Alright, enough a’ that. Turnin’ me into a fuckin’ sap.” Your next scoff and eye roll is cut off when he finally claims your mouth in a searing kiss.

Overhead, stars twinkle, your silent spectators.

[saytrrose]

Can we see More about your racing AU please?

Looks so amazing and i love It so much

I do suppose I could share the character design line up!

I really just need to finish designing all the go karts, (atleast most are done!) and then I can make proper cards for them and really get into the written details.

To be honest it’s a little hard to just ramble about info and details without specific questions to go off of, so I’ll try my best hhh

for starters, the tent? Not a tent!

It’s actually a stadium, the amazing digital race!

And rooms? Sort of tweaked, they are more like each character owns a personal garage, a large open space where they store their vehicles and then have a loft above that showcases their cozy safe havens. Bed, entertainment, basically a small room in a much larger one.

I haven’t revealed Ragatha, Zooble or Gangles karts yet but I’ll go ahead and just talk about all of them!

Caine:

Caine has a motorcycle, specifically one inspired off of the motorcycle I’m saving up for this summer, a Kawasaki Eliminator. It’s a cruiser, I’m thinking he has a 600cc model but considering Bubble is his right hand man and operates as the races pit crew- he’s definitely tinkered with Caines bike, making adjustments and improving the engine. God only knows what the little psycho did, but it’s a damn good bike that’s not supposed to rev as loud as it does.

Pomni:

Her kart is inspired off a Volkswagen Beetle, seemed very VERY Pomni to me. Her car mimics her outfit design a lot, I might do some color changes to be honest but it will be super minimal, it’ll be final when the cards are done! She definitely stops at the pit the most often despite her placement in a race, are my tires okay?? Do I need my oil?? I know you just filled it but it went down- is anything damaged?? Sweetie you did one lap..

Jax:

Jesus Christ he has a giant supercharger on the hood of his car, and he is absolutely one of those annoying mfs that reva their engine OBNOXIOUSLY loud all the time like he’s super cool. If you’re wondering who most of the skid marks on the track are from, that’s also Jax. Hes the best as drifting, and he loves to show that off. His car isn’t based too much on an actual vehicle?? I stared at Mario karts and pieced it together, but also gave it a very sports car look, the wing on the back fr fr I think Jax would dig that.

Kinger:

OHHSOSK I was so creative with his little wagon,,, it’s castle shaped!! And the best part? Operates like a rocket. In the back past the battlement (the crown looking thing you see atop castle pillars) ARE GIANT exhaust pipes and yes, they do spit fire !! Operates like a rocket. It’s very cool! (Also he has a great muffler because unlike Jax he’s considerate of others hearing 💔) Oh also, he has one of those silly horns, I forgot how to describe it but you can just look at how I drew it on his kart and you’ll know heheh!

Zooble:

Our second motorcyclist, owns a trike! If you don’t know what that is, picture a bike with training wheels but super badass. 3 wheels! It’s inspired off the Harley Davidson freewheeler, I like that design a lot but it’s def not actually a Harley because istg when you buy those bikes your just paying for the fancy name brand- expect it to be in the shop all the time, smh not good- BUT ANYWAY!! The looks are inspired off it though and I can’t wait for this one because it’s just as crazy kooky as Zoobles design is.

Gangle:

Her kart is based on my favorite car, classic style but not too cool because you can bet she has anime stickers on the back and a decal that says “please let me merge before I start crying.” It’s similar to a karmann ghia convertible, 1963. Cherry red (so so pretty) She always has the top down, unless competing because damn you gotta go fast. That car itself is really slow, top speed normally is 68mph, however people have modified them enough to get up to 120mph. Thats still pretty slow compared to others, but her kart only reflects the appearance of the ghia! It’s much faster and I assume Bubble works on all their vehicles if asked to.

Lastly, Ragatha:

Our 3rd motorcyclist. 4 Karts, 3 cyclists. Her bike is a futuristic style, if you want a good idea then look up “icare bike”! Not so much a straight forward posture, she leans over ofc, you’ll likely get the idea when you see her bike. I’ll be honest, I haven’t gotten too into her design yet because I haven’t started drawing but!! Dark blue leds,, everywhere yes yes so cool ❤️

Sorry that’s so much 😭 but yeah! Just need to finish 3 kart designs for you guys and I can make official ref cards 👀

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

FORD MUSTANG BOSS 302

BOSS-A-NOVA!

They called it The Boss and for two short years it ruled the muscle car scene in the US, establishing itself as one of the greatest road and race cars of the era. Now, it’s one of the most collectible.

In 1960s US street lingo, if something was ‘boss’ it was cool, tough, the best. And the 1969 Boss 302 Mustang wore its badge with pride. It launched just four and a half years after the first Mustang was revealed to critical acclaim and record sales. Yearly updates to keep Mustang fresh in the face of tough new challengers from General Motors and Chrysler (particularly the Camaro) resulted in the once lean and pretty ’Stang muscling up, both in body shape and under-bonnet brawn, and the 1969-70 Boss models were the zenith of Mustang styling.

Thereafter, Mustangs became increasingly bloated and anaemic as the 1970s fuel crisis and stricter pollution laws cut horsepower and stylists lost their way; the rippling flanks and thrusting nose of the late 60s/early 70s cars gave way to boxy, bland designs. That early look would not be recaptured until 2005, when new Mustangs were given retro styling.

The Boss 302 was launched at the same time as its big-block brother, the Boss 429. Both were positioned as competition specials; Ford wanted to homologate its 302-cuber for Trans-Am and the 429ci monster for NASCAR. In fact, Ford went wild with engines between 1969-70, offering nine V8s – the ‘economy’ 302, 351 Windsor, 351 Cleveland, 390, 428 Cobra Jet, 428 Super Cobra Jet, 429 ‘wedge’, Boss 302 and Boss 429.

For the Boss 302, Ford’s high-compression 302ci small-block V8 was beefed up with four-bolt main bearing caps and redesigned ‘Cleveland’ cylinder heads with bigger inlet and exhaust valves, and ports that allowed the engine to breathe more efficiently.

These ‘semi-hemi’ heads were based on the Ford 427ci racing engine’s combustion chambers, and a balanced forged steel crankshaft and forged steel conrods allowed the engine to handle high rpms for sustained periods. A single 780cfm four-barrel Holley carburettor sat atop a high-rise aluminium inlet manifold, while a dual-point distributor, high-pressure oil pump, windage tray and screw-in welch plugs were further indications of its competition intent.

A rev limiter was fitted, progressively cutting spark from 5800rpm to 6150, but it was easily bypassed and the Boss 302 could reportedly keep making power up to 8000rpm with minor mods. In the muscle car marketing war, Ford claimed a peak horsepower figure of 290bhp at 5800rpm (the same as the Camaro Z/28), but that was extremely conservative.

Two four-speed manual Top Loader transmissions were available: a wide-ratio ’box with Hurst shifter more suited to street and strip use, and a close-ratio unit for racing. Adding to the race or road options list were four diffs: the stock 3.5:1 nine-inch, Traction-Lok 3.5:1 and 3.91:1 and the No-Spin 4.30:1 built by Detroit Automotive. Axles and diff centres were also strengthened to take the loads.

Suspension was also race-inspired with heavy-duty springs, shocks and sway bar up front, and Hotchkiss-style rear suspension with heavy-duty leaf springs, sway bar and staggered shock absorbers. The left-hand shock absorber was bolted behind the axle and the right in front, to reduce axle tramp under acceleration. Amazingly for such a high-performance car, braking was still only discs and drums with power assistance.

Ironically, the Boss 302’s sexy shape was styled by former General Motors designer Larry Shinoda, who is often credited with coming up with the Boss moniker. When asked what he was working on, he replied, "The boss’s car", a reference to new Ford president ‘Bunkie’ Knudson, who was also ex-GM and had recruited Shinoda to Ford.

While the wheelbase remained unchanged at 2740mm, the ’69 Mustang was 96.5mm longer overall to accommodate all the V8s offered, although the big-blocks still had to be shoe-horned under the bonnet. Shinoda’s ’69 Boss 302 was also one of the first production cars to offer an optional front air dam and adjustable rear wing, and his use of high-contrast black panels, rear window SportsSlats, and go-faster stripes made the Boss a real attention-grabber. The ’69 was also the only quad-headlight Mustang, a feature that was dropped for 1970 models.

In 1970, American Hot Rod magazine dubbed the 1970 Boss 302 as "definitely the best handling car Ford has ever built", while the conservative Consumer Guide called it "uncomfortable at any speed over anything but the smoothest surface". Unique Cars resident Mustang maniac, ‘Uncle’ Phil Walker, never read the Consumer Guide review, but even if he had it wouldn’t have stopped him buying the immaculate 1970 Grabber Orange Boss 302 you see here.

Phil already has his beloved 1966 Shelby GT350H, but the Boss 302 really got his Mustang juices percolating. And he wasn’t alone, because the first Boss he saw, some 43 years ago, is still one of Australia’s most iconic race cars: Allan Moffat’s Trans-Am racer. Phil remembers it clearly.

"I saw Moff race it Calder and I was inspired to own one," Phil recalls. "It was the most aggressive-looking car; its stance was something you had to see to believe. It looked like it was doing a million miles per hour when it was parked.

"My Boss was originally a one-owner car and I bought it from a friend of mine in California, Dave, who I also bought my Shelby GT350H from 19 years ago. Dave found it in a barn with a blown engine, but in otherwise pretty good condition.

"The lady who owned it from new didn’t realise it had a high-compression engine and had run it on standard fuel. When it blew up she just parked it.

"Dave did a nut-and-bolt restoration over two years, then put it up on his hoist. He didn’t want to sell it, but I got my way in the end – unfortunately he had the last say on the price (laughs). I didn’t even bother to test drive it; I knew it was a good car. It had 21 (new) miles on the odo when I picked it up and only 54,000 miles in total."

Since then, Phil has only put a couple of hundred miles on the car, but that’s enough for him to have bonded with it.

"I’ve only had the Boss since January and it’s growing on me. It’s different to the Shelby. It’s bigger and very low.

"The engine is incredible. Dave is one of the best engine builders in California and when he rebuilt the 302 he changed the cam spec. US camshaft technology was okay in the 60s and 70s, but if you had a big-cam muscle car they wouldn’t idle and they were terrible for driving in cities.

"A proper Boss engine can rev to 8500rpm all day and for a V8 that’s pretty serious. But they’re not renowned for low-down torque; it starts coming on from 3500rpm. My car still has a solid-lifter cam, but it pulls like a train from 1200rpm in top gear and I can drive it around at 1500rpm in top all day.

"It’s got the four-speed close-ratio Top Loader with the long first gear and with a 3.7:1 rear end it does about 55-60mph (89-97km/h) in first gear. It bloody goes!"

Phil is a fussy bugger and his cars have to look just right, so Russell Stuckey from Stuckey Tyres has ordered him a set of genuine 15 x 8 Minilites from England to replace the standard Magnum 500s.

"I want it to look like the Parnelli Jones race car, and to get the stance I want it’s going to have 275/60s on the rear and 255/60s on the front. At the moment it’s a pretty car that is tough, but I want a tough car that looks tough. And that’s all I’m going to do to it."

After his first real fang in the Boss, Phil felt that his Shelby would be half a lap in front at the end of a 10-lap sprint at Sandown, but now thinks the Boss would be quicker. We might have to put both to the acid test one day. What do you mean "no way", Phil?

It was a nervous Phil who turned up at a Melbourne storage facility in January to pick up his new Boss 302. So nervous, in fact, that he took along Unique Cars art director Ange and a sturdy tow rope – just in case.

The storage people were even more apprehensive – they had been warned about just how anal he is with his cars, as he explains: "The lady there said, ‘You must be pretty fanatical because we’ve been given strict instructions that no one is to touch the car except you’." Fortunately, the car arrived in pristine condition.

"I was pretty excited, I’d been waiting for seven weeks," Phil laughs. "I took the car cover off it, fired it up, and it drove home like a brand new car. It was as good as I thought it would be. I spent the next three hours washing it."

Sounds like our Phil.

PARNELLI AND ME

Three years ago, my mate Dave and I were invited to a Trans-Am dinner at Portland International Raceway where Dave was racing his 1970 Trans-Am Boss 302 and I was crewing for him.

When we were driving there we noticed this black Mercedes following us. When we stopped it did too and this bloke got out and said, "I noticed you guys back at the hotel. You’re going to the Trans-Am dinner aren’t you? I’m lost." It was Parnelli Jones!

I jumped in with him and when we got there I ‘invited’ myself onto Parnelli’s table, which also included Pete Brock – the guy who designed the Shelby Daytona Coupe. There was I, Mr Nobody, with all these US racing heavies, but Parnelli was a real gentleman, not up himself in any way.

The next day they had free lap time at Portland and, when I saw Parnelli there with Ford’s new ‘Parnelli Jones’ Boss 302 tribute Mustang, I asked if there was any chance of a ride and he said jump in. We did 10 laps and the guy hadn’t lost any of his ability; my eyes were getting bigger and bigger coming into the corners.

It was a great experience that I’ll never forget. – PW

IT's MINE...

Moff’s Mustang is probably the most iconic Australian racecar and after seeing it I was inspired to own a Boss Mustang. Then, about 25 years ago, I went to Pebble Beach in Monterey for the first time and saw a 1970 Grabber Orange Boss 302, which was the colour Parnelli Jones raced in Trans-Am. That day I knew I had to own a Boss. It was the car I’d always wanted after my Shelby, which was my lifelong dream car.

My Boss 302 is fully optioned, including the Shaker, extra side mirror, tacho and rear louvres, and it’s got a lot of wow factor. When you drive down the freeway, you get the thumbs-up from all sorts of different people. I think it’s the colour.

It’s closer to show standard than my Shelby. It’s got the paint marks on the tailshaft and all the little concours details, but I’m never going to show it; I’m not into that.

The 1969/70 body shape is still the best. Ford got it right then, but lost the plot after that and it’s reflected in their collectibility today. – PW

[shhh-secret-time]

Kenny McCormick

27 y.o (He/They)

Soul Synergy: Flowers grow on your skin wherever you soulmates been injured.

Headcanons:

¤ The only reason he's able to go to college is because of Kevin.

》 Kevin goes into the military as soon as he can, since then he's put money to the side for Kenny and Karen

¤ Kenny still works multiple jobs at a time to give back. Feels like he can't just accept the money

¤ He didn't actually go into college until he was old enough to adopt Karen, he couldn't leave her behind

¤ Going for Robotics/Mechanical Engineering

》 I always saw Kenny as the kind of guy who is a savant at things he cares about, so even though he's not a great test taker he's phenomenal in the field

》 He's the kinda guy that stays up until three in the morning going down the Wiki rabbit hole. Next time someone hangs out with him he's going on about snail facts.

¤ If he ever does find the time to himself he spends it on his car.

¤ Bought an old police car from the scrap yard and has been working on it since

¤ Once he gets it up and going he uses it for street racing, earns a little extra cash that way

¤ Absolutely does everything in his power to keep Karen away from that scene

》 She eventually finds out and starts going to watch his races, cheering her brother on

》 His number one fan (I'm crying)

¤ Keeps his parents at an arms length. To the point they don't even know where Kenny and Karen moved to

¤ When Kevin comes home they visit him often. The siblings get together for holidays, birthdays, and breaks.

¤ They moved into the same apartment complexes as Stan and Kyle. They're upstairs neighbors

¤ Will jump down from his balcony to theirs when he comes over, instead of using the front door like a normal person

¤ It isn't until he starts street racing that he joins Stan's board game nights. Now that he's got the extra time

¤ Loves DnD night, but he's the kind of player that's absolutely silly. Has lost two characters already

》 Is the best role player at the table! Has made the table burst into tears over the death of his characters

》 Makes these dorky guys and then makes you fall in love with them.

》》 Definitely flirts with his friends, claims it's in character.

¤ He'll drive Karen anywhere she wants to go until she gets her license. He doesn't want to be her parent but he can't help but worry

¤ His phone is cracked to hell, but he doesn't really care. As long as he can see the screen well enough and make calls it's fine

¤ He collects bottle caps, he doesn't know when it started but he likes picking them up and turning them into pins.

¤ Started using mint/candy tins to keep his stuff in. They fit in his pockets easier

》 In the tin: pair of headphones, chapstick, lighter, a note from Karen, stickers, and a really cool rock he found

¤ Probably has another tin that has sewing supplies, he still has a habit of sewing things back together rather than getting rid of them

¤ His Heelyz are his favorite pair of shoes. He wears them every time he's about to race, says they bring him good luck

》 They were a Christmas gift from Stan, it's the only reason he owns them

¤ Usually has rags covered in oil or grease tucked in his pants, the chain on his pants has little charms. Things Karen has made him and keys.

¤ He had three piercings on the shell of his ear, but when Kevin left for the military he took it out and gave it to him.

》 Said he'll put it back in when his brother comes home.

¤ He's trying to stop smoking but it's a losing battle.

¤ He's still running around as Mysterion with his inability to die.

¤ The power changes as he gets older. He now wakes up wherever he deems home to be. It's not something he can choose, it's what his heart thinks home is

¤ So he wakes up on the couch of his little living room, Karen sleeping in her room.

¤ His body reverses back to when he first got his Soul Synergy

¤ Kenny doesn't get his Soul Synergy until he's in his late twenties.

¤ Doesn't really know why it took so long for it to show up but he's not complaining

¤ I don't think he freaks out when he first sees plants push through his skin

¤ It's alarming for sure, but he just kind of looks at it

¤ It isn't until he notices the scars on his body left from the plant don't go away that he takes it seriously

¤ He tries to keep some of the plants, but he doesn't exactly have the knowledge on how to take care of some of these plants

¤ He gets a little sad when they die

¤ When he finds his soulmate he's more attentive to his body

》 Not just where the flowers grow from, but he's better at taking care of himself

¤ He can't stop being Mysterion. He knows people still need him, and he needs this, but he's not as reckless with his body.

He's sitting in class, zoning out again. Whatever the professor was going on about was a distant thought. The tired behind his eyes weighed him down. He had his head leaned back against the wall, his hood pulled up to add a little extra comfort. Trying to stay awake, he's bouncing his leg. The motion doing very little to keep him awake.

But the sleepy blonde doesn't stay that way for long. The familiar feeling of plants pushing their way from under his skin up into the surface wakes him. He sits up almost in an instant when an orchid breaks the flesh, poking out of his mask. From the side of face, another one blooms and stretches out towards the sun.

No blood. But the side of his face stings, the feeling of a handprint buzzes where the petals touch.

Kenny stands up abruptly, cutting the professor off with little to no care. His hands nearly miss grabbing his bag from the way he beelines it to the door. As fast as his legs carry him, he runs out of the room leaving behind petals, leaves, and the protests of his professor.

(Here's the blank ♡ )

[pitconfirmbutton]

wildflowers and fruits (I) | lance stroll

lance stroll x reader

wc: 4833 words

warnings: controlling relationship (not an f1 driver, made up character), physical abuse (never written but implied), emotional abuse, eating disorder/not eating, smoking, 2 tiny mentions of su*cide (not depicted but implied) everyone is sad, so very sad

wildflowers and fruits (part i)

petals and peaches (part ii)

summer roses and winter strawberries (part iii)

carnations and clementines (part iv)

____________________________________________________

“You don’t even love him, Bug, you know that, don’t you?” Seb had always been right, whether it was his knack for details or the wisdom of age, he was never wrong. That was why you had jumped at his offer to mentor you through your first year as a Formula 1 driver, well one of many reasons why. 

You brushed his hand from your shoulder and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, Seb.” He had figured it out and it scared you but he couldn’t know that. He grabbed your hand, a last-ditch effort to talk some sense into you. “I’ll sponsor you! I will sponsor the team, whatever he pays, I will double it. Just please don’t feel like you have to do this.” He looked up at you, his blonde curls dishevelled from running his hands through them and his eyes wide and pleading, staring straight into your soul. “I love him, Seb” and with that you pulled your hand from his, leaving your driver’s room for the garage.

---

Lance watched as you made your way into the engineering room, apologising for your tardiness, as you quickly took your seat and put your headset on. You didn’t look up, you didn’t turn to him and smile. Lance frowned, the weather in Singapore was unbearably hot, his Aston Martin t-shirt and shorts bringing him, not nearly as much reprieve as he wished. But in comparison to you, he felt cold, your body covered by an Aston Martin hoodie and leggings. He knew why, all the drivers did. Despite his naive and at times spaced-out appearance, he picked up on things, especially when it came to you.

The latest title sponsor for Aston Martin, ‘Securitic’, a large UK-based crypto banking app, was owned by Harry Lyons, a pompous, sharp-dressed British man whose good looks charmed many into thinking he wasn’t a terrible person. But Lance knew. To be fair, even Yuki knew, Oscar too, despite the young drivers being rather wet behind the ears. Lance hated the man keeping his racing team afloat, a phrase never before uttered by a Formula 1 driver. Why? Harry Lyons had trapped his teammate and the love of his life. 

Lance had met you back in Italian Formula 4, you were 14, he was 15 and you were teammates in Prema, coming in 2nd behind him in the championship that year. His dad had nudged him as you walked into the trailer, hinting at him to pick his jaw off the floor. Since then you had both become the best of friends, finally meeting back up as teammates to drive in Aston Martin together. He just never mentioned how deeply in love with you he had fallen.

“How did you find the brake bias change, Lance?” He was pulled from his thoughts, looking up to his engineer, Ben. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it was better than FP1 for sure.” Ben nodded along, scribbling a note on his paper before continuing. Lance’s gaze drifted back to you, shocking himself when he met your eyes, gazing over your laptop at him. He smiled softly and lifted his hand, giving you a small wave. You smiled back but it never reached your eyes, a smile he didn’t recognise.

After an engineering meeting and a PR meeting, Lance was free, leaving the motorhome to be enveloped in the warm Singaporean air, the smell of rubber and oil mixing with the smell of local food and flowers. “Lance!” He turned around to find the voice, seeing Esteban, Pierre and Charles walking through the paddock towards him. “Hey guys, how are you all?” The company was welcome, pulling him from his thoughts. “Good mate! The car is actually looking good for us” Esteban explained, Pierre nodding along in agreeance. Before Lance could ask Charles about his day too, he watched the Monégasque roll his eyes, tracking something across the paddock. “What a wanker!” Lando had slotted himself in between Charles and Pierre, also distracted by the sight in front of him. Lance turned around, heart sinking as he watched you walk beside Harry towards the paddock exit. 

As Lance watched, he noticed your body language, your jaw tightly set, shoulders rigid and eyes wide, staring down at the ground. You appeared to be holding hands but on second glance, your fingers were splayed, your hand being crushed by Harry’s possessive grip. Lance saw red, taking a step forward to instinctively protect you before Esteban’s hand found his shoulder. “Not in the middle of the paddock, mate. Not now.” He was right. As Lance turned around he saw numerous reporters, all live on camera. As much as Lance dreamed of breaking Harry’s nose to the left, it wasn’t the best decision for your career or his for that matter. He looked back at you, making eye contact for the second time today as you walked past, your eyes quickly falling back to the floor. Lance’s eyes then settled on the devil’s. Harry simply looked Lance up and down, smirking at him, before turning you to him and kissing your lips harshly. Lance looked away, feeling sick to his stomach. “Can we please just go?” Lance’s voice was meek and the group was quick to rally around him. As they walked to the exit, they chatted about their plans for the weekend, the FIA sponsor gala and the sick feeling they all had watching you with Harry was seemingly avoided within the conversation.

---

It was 2 am and tomorrow was FP3 and qualifying and that meant you should have been asleep 5 hours ago but here you were, wide awake. This was how most nights went for you now, Harry taking you back to the hotel suite or his Monaco penthouse, either having sex with you or screaming at you through a locked bathroom door and then you inevitably up, unable to sleep as he lay there peacefully. It had gone on for just over 3 months now, ever since he had pulled you into a dark meeting room at the Silverstone HQ and explained everything he wanted. You could still hear his voice in your head. 

“I have been watching you for a while darling and I know how much you value Stroll Junior, so, if you want him to have a race seat for next year, I recommend you listen rather closely. I also recommend that you don’t tell anyone about this little arrangement, otherwise, you and little Stroll may both be seatless for next year. I wouldn’t doubt it, sweetheart, Lawrence and I go an awful way back, that is the reason why he gave me such a good contract, which stipulates that I even have control over the future Aston Martin lineup.”

You shivered, the memory making you feel cold as you sat by the hotel pool, cigarette perched between your fingers as you lamented your situation. It was a bad habit, especially for a professional athlete but it seemed to be the only control you had these days, between your strict F1 schedule and Harry’s restriction on anything that brought you joy, you justified the cigarette. You also allowed yourself the luxury of a tank top and shorts in the warm weather, the only light cast over your ever-thinning body and the purple marks that littered it was coming from the entrance hall to the pool area, at least 20 metres away. 

You took a long drag and looked out over the city, wishing at that moment that you could be anyone else. An F1 fan barely able to sleep from the excitement of the impending race, a child in a soft slumber, a night shift worker, slaving away to make less money in a year than I made off one race. You would trade roles in a heartbeat, just to be away from Harry. 

Footsteps broke you from your thoughts and you froze in place, a default response after these last few months. From the dark garden bed in the corner you were perched on, you squinted to see who had joined you in your melancholy. Lance. Of course, it was Lance. Your heart ached to look at him, his hair was as boofy as the day you met and you had to stop yourself from chuckling at the way he dragged his slipper-clad feet over the pool tiles, a comforting shuffle noise echoing out. The sound brought you back to beach holidays together, the sound of flip-flops on a boardwalk and the feeling of the sun on your neck and of snowed-in days in Canada, slippers on a wood cabin floor as yourself, Lance, Chloe, Scotty and Jack the dog made pancakes and played Monopoly together.

But none of that happiness existed anymore and those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. In a way they did because you were here looking at the pool wondering which poor staff member would find you at the bottom and Lance was over there, crying enough tears to fill it up all over again. He was crying. Why? Your heart sank further and the guilt you felt inside was enough to make you want to throw up the one apple you’d eaten yesterday. As you peeked further around the monstera shielding you from view, your foot slipped, garden pebbles tumbling onto the pool tiles below. 

“Who’s there?” Lance called out into the darkness, wiping his eyes quickly and standing up. You were speechless. You hadn’t uttered more than a ‘hello’, ‘good luck’ or ‘see you around’ in 3 and a half months and you didn’t know what you would say if he found you. “I didn’t know the Ritz-Carlton had a pool boy ghost?” Lance chuckled to himself as he made his way over cautiously. It was good to know his awkward humour hadn’t left since you last talked. There was probably no avoiding this, so here goes nothing. As you stood up and emerged from behind the plants, Lance stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open. Except it wasn’t like when you caught him staring at you in that god-awful bright blue Sherri Hill prom dress at the 2014 FIA gala, this time he wasn’t in awe, he was horrified.

“Hey, Lance.” You stood there in a spaghetti strap tank, Italian national team soccer shorts and no shoes, hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing your ever-fading cheeks, cigarette still smoking in your right hand. His eyes dragged down your body in the same way you imagined it would look to drag your hand over sandpaper, his mouth in a thin line, trying to hold back how terrorised he was seeing you this way. One on your left wrist, three on your upper right arm, more than he could count across your shins and knees, one on the left-hand side of your abdomen and as he brought his eyes to yours, he gasped. One growing darker by the minute right around your left eye. You suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious, remembering why you had only given yourself a reprieve from the heat under the blanket of darkness.

“I-I should probably go, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You quickly snubbed your cigarette, chuckling it into the bin before starting to walk back to the hallway, brushing past Lance along the way. “Hey, no, wait, we um, we haven’t talked in so long, buttercup. I am really worried about you.” His eyes carried so much love that you considered throwing yourself into his arms again, knowing he would do anything to keep you safe, but in turn, ruining his career and that is all you were worried about.

“I’ve just been busy, I’m fi-” How were you supposed to stand here looking the way you were and tell him you’re fine? You didn’t have the strength to tell him everything and you knew that if you stayed here much longer, Harry might wake up and come looking for you and that would be the end of both of your careers. You tried to think of what to say but Lance got there first.

“Does Seb know?” You shook your head. The man wasn’t dumb if anything quite the opposite and you suspected he knew. Hanna had even talked to you a few times about your relationship and you suspect it was because they were both worried. Your parents were out of the picture, meaning that the Vettels had been the closest thing you had to a mum and dad. You suspected Harry had also picked up on your lack of familial ties too.

“Did I do anything wrong, Petal?” His eyes were glassy again and you wondered if when he had been crying earlier, he had been crying about you. You again wanted to fling yourself into his arms and give him the world, the emotions resulting in you letting your guide down for a second. “You could never do anything wrong, Lanny.” The nickname tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop it and it tasted of home-cooked pasta, overpriced beach ice cream and red-wine-tainted kisses. Before you let him answer you continued. “You did nothing wrong, this is all me, please just don’t worry about me. I’ve got you, ok? You are going to be ok. I will see you tomorrow.” And before Lance could process what that meant, you had slipped past him, back to your hotel room to hop under the sheets and lie as still as possible so as not to wake Harry.

---

You were surprised you had even finished the race at all, let alone ended up in P4. It was the kind of race in which you hoped you would DNF, engine overheat, electric issue, or plough head-first into the wall - all were options that crossed your mind during the 61 laps. Lance had gotten P3 and your heart swelled with pride for him. The mechanics tapped you on the back and pulled you along to the podium to watch. You hadn’t seen Lance up there on those steps in 3 months, despite him scoring numerous 2nd and 3rd place victories. ‘Go and stand under his podium and clap all you want, just don’t come crying to me when the world calls you a gold-digging whore, dear’. It was enough for you to not go anymore. That and the look in Harry’s eyes when he said it. There was no compromising on this. But when you watched the podium celebrations back, always in the early hours of the morning with a cigarette in hand, on a balcony, roof-top or terrace somewhere, you never missed the way his eyes scanned the team, hoping to catch you down there, smiling up at him.

This time you would get to do that, although you were suspicious about how you had made it to the podium celebration without a firm grip pulling you away. When you turned back around, looking through the team, you saw him, linen suit pressed and arms folded. He didn’t scowl at you this time, instead raising an eyebrow at you and cocking his head. Your blood ran cold. His unpredictability scared you the most. What was he planning?

You quickly whipped your head back to the podium, clapping softly as the team cheered and screamed for Lance as he made his way to the 3rd place step. His eyes caught yours as he skimmed the team, glancing past you before backtracking to make sure you were real and not a dehydration-induced mirage. He smiled brightly and waved. In that moment, riding the high of the podium he believed that last night had fixed everything, that you had gone back to your room and dumped Harry, gotten a night of good sleep, eaten breakfast, and covered your black eye in makeup while singing along to The Beach Boys as you used to every morning. He let himself believe that you were coming back to him and in that moment you let yourself also go along with that crazy thought. The idea that Harry had maybe let you go to the podium celebration because he was done with you because he wanted to break up and free you.

He had come back to the garage, drenched in champagne, smile wide and toothy. He couldn’t take a step without being congratulated again. ‘Thanks, man’, ‘I appreciate it, bro’, ‘couldn’t have done it without you’. They were sincere, every word but he was on a mission. Mid-conversation and trying to track down your body within the garage.

“Lance! Well done, an amazing drive, truly fantastic defending from Charles there at the end.” Seb was your mentor but that didn’t stop him from showing his ex-teammate some love when he did well. “Thanks, hey have you seen her?” Lance’s eyes were still darting around as Seb held his shoulders, having pulled back from a quick hug. “Already left, gone to go and get pretty for tonight, I suspect.” Lance had just gotten a trophy and yet he couldn’t control the way his face dropped at you having already left, without congratulating him first. “She’s already pretty” was all he could mumble out. Seb patted his shoulder and nodded, his smile tight-lipped, acknowledging the hurt in the young Aston Martin driver's voice. “I agree, Lance, I agree,” he said contemplatively.

---

Boss had provided Lance with a deep green suit for tonight’s FIA Sponsor's gala at Marina Bay Sands, along with a pair of black, shiny loafers. He thanked the universe that the material was light as he placed his jacket on before slipping out of his room to meet Mick and Esteban in the hotel bar for a drink before they left for the event. On the elevator ride down, he let himself imagine what you might be wearing tonight and let his cheeks darken at the thought of the dresses he had seen you in for galas and events over the years, standing out like a daisy growing in a patch of grass. His heart sank once again as he thought about how you were probably trying to cover bruises, doing a 360 spin in front of the mirror. Not to admire yourself but to ensure no one would find out the truth.

Mick and Esteban waved at him from the bar, sliding a gin and tonic over to him as he took a seat with them. “Looking very dashing, mate.” Esteban gave him an eyebrow raise and two thumbs up, Mick laughing along at his antics. A ‘thanks’ was all Lance had replied with before grabbing his drink and downing ¾ of it, not noticing the way the his friends looked at each other in worry. 

“You know you can always talk to us right, Lance? I speak for both of us when I say that it is awful seeing you so down the last few months.” Mick grabbed his shoulder firmly but the grip provided Lance with some comfort, enough comfort to tell his two friends just how sad he really was, and more importantly, why.

“Wait, so you had started seeing each other in private… and she left you for Harry?” Mick had a quizzical look on his face, trying to determine whether he had gotten the timeline correct. Lance nodded, taking a small sip of the remaining ¼ of his G&T. “That is really not like her, is it?” Esteban followed up with. Lance nodded again. “Oh! Oh… Oh ok, I put it together.” Esteban said, composing himself as he realised what answer he had stumbled upon. “What?” Mick was slightly confused, still trying to work out why one of the sweetest, most loyal people he knew left Lance for Harry. “Mate, I know you aren’t blind, surely you see the awful way he treats her, I suspect… obviously I don’t know but I think he might be forcing her hand a bit.” Esteban chose his words carefully, glancing at Lance occasionally as he informed Mick of his hypothesis. “I had my suspicions but I guess I just wanted to live in denial for a while.” The boys sat quietly for a few minutes, all deep in thought regarding the unearthed information.

“Wait, how long had you two been seeing each other?” It was like Esteban to have an unnecessary follow-up question. “2 months, no one knew though, I don’t think even Harry does. I mean… I am well aware that he knows I am head over heels for her, he takes every opportunity to remind me that I lost but he doesn’t seem to know we were seeing each other.” The group hummed in contemplation once again.

“I think we should talk to Seb about this. I trust his advice and he always has good ideas.” Lance nodded, standing up from the bar before heading to the venue with the others.

When he entered, he was congratulated some more, by everyone except the person that mattered most, you. He spotted you over to the side, chatting with Securitic higher-ups and just like had happened all those years ago, his jaw hit the floor. You were in a long sleeve, floor-length dress, emerald green but overlaid with intricate floral lace, orange, red, pink and yellow flowers standing out. Your hair fell around your face and your lips had the faintest hint of sparkle and for a second Lance let himself wonder if they tasted like strawberry, just like they had that night under the dim lights of your villa’s balcony in Spain. And just like all those years ago, he felt an elbow nudge his side. He turned his head, looking over at his father.

“I always thought that you two would end up together. A woman as sweet and fierce as her, she always had you wrapped around her finger. I never saw her with a guy like Harry, so brash and inauthentic.” Lance scrunched his eyebrows at his father’s comment, he had never heard him speak ill of Harry, even for a second, so the comment caught him off-guard. “What do you mean, Dad?” Lance knew he was just snooping now, but he had the tiniest speck of hope. His father was a kind and family-oriented man but Lawrence Stroll, the businessman, got rid of people the second they couldn’t continue his vision, and god he hoped Harry was in that category. “Let’s just say a lot is happening behind closed doors right now that I can’t discuss but… he wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

Mick and Seb had tucked themselves inconspicuously away from the bustle of crowds and conversations and were chatting about hiking trips before Mick blurted out his question. “What do you do if you think a friend is in a relationship she can’t escape?” Mick cringed internally at the execution of his question but he knew he had to rip it off like a bandaid, so to speak. “It sure doesn’t help when that someone she is with is a multi-billion dollar sponsor” Seb muttered, more to himself than Mick, but regardless, the young German was shocked to hear what Seb had said. He knew too. “You know?” “I have had my suspicions for a long time. Only so many bruises you can get from training before I don’t believe you anymore.” Mick knew Seb was trying to keep it light-hearted and when he looked into the older man's eyes, he could see the tears forming. 

It pained Seb as much as it pained your grid mates. You were incredibly close with Mick, having weaselled your way into his introverted heart when you had mentioned never having a dog before politely asking if you could come on a walk with Angie sometime. You were so simple, yet so complex at the same time, you and Mick had never run out of things to talk about. You were the bright sunshine and he was the glowing moon, complete opposites that just work. Just worked, past tense. Like Lance, he hadn’t gotten more than a hello since Harry came along.

Esteban, Mick, Lance, Charles, Lando and Pierre had made an impromptu circle to discuss the race together, laughing at Lando’s misfortune in losing his front wing six seconds into the race. Lance had finally gotten you out of his mind for the first time today before the clinking of a wine glass was heard and all the boys looked up to see Harry standing next to you. Lance’s heart sank. Charles placed his hand on Lance’s shoulder, a physical and emotional support. Lance had never confessed his crush for you to any of the other drivers, excluding Esteban and Mick an hour ago, but they all knew, especially Charles who had noticed long before you all made it to Formula 1. 

“Hey everyone, I just wanted to start off by saying a big thank you to the FIA for hosting us tonight at this amazing gala.” Eye roll, from all six men standing together. “As I am sure you all know, I have been with a very special woman now for a while. She drives a Formula 1 car and she is drop-dead gorgeous, what more could you want right?” While Harry chuckled, eliciting a laugh from the douchebag CEOs at the event, Lance’s fists balled tighter and tighter, hearing the words that dripped from his mouth, so insincere, so misogynistic. He looked across at you, a well-trained PR smile on your face. To anyone who didn’t know you, it looked genuine. But it wasn’t your happy smile. It wasn’t the smile you had when he had won you a Pikachu plushie at the arcade or the smile on your face when you got offered an F1 seat with your best friend and it wasn’t the smile on your face when Chloe and Scotty had told you that their daughter’s name was Daisy, your middle name. You weren’t happy right now, you were feigning happiness to survive. Building all your walls up to stay safe. 

“Well, honey, I have only one question for you…” Pierre gasped and looked at the rest of his friends, trying to see if he was reading the situation correctly. Lando hadn’t got there yet but everyone else had. Lance was in a state of shock, feeling only Charles’ hand rub his shoulder and his heart break into a million pieces. Seb had grabbed Hanna, not out of joy or surprise but out of horror and shock, holding tightly to his rock in order to process the terrible event. He was about to propose to you… in front of your friends, bosses, rivals and sponsors because he knew you couldn’t say no in front of people.

“Will you marry me?” And with that, Harry got down on one knee in front of you. You had been focusing so hard on smiling and not crying that you had taken a second to even process that he was in front of you, on one knee with a little velvet box and the flashiest and most kitsch ring you had ever seen. You knew he didn’t know you at all, he didn’t even know your favourite colour, but this ring couldn’t be more unlike you if he tried. If anything, it looked like he was proposing to himself with how outlandish it was. You broke yourself away from the thought to look at the crowd, your PR smile still sitting perfectly on your strawberry-scented lips, a taste Harry said he couldn’t stand. 

There he was, the man you thought and had always wished would be down on one knee for you, asking you to be his wife. Except he was standing in between your friends, all with shocked and scared expressions on their faces. While everyone else was politely clapping or cheering for you and Harry, they, along with Seb and Hanna looked distraught. You looked back to your teammate, realising you only had a few more seconds before you would be forced to answer and you wanted to spend every single one of them staring at Lance Stroll, the love of your life, your best friend. You tried to send him an ‘I’m sorry’ message with your eyes but it felt helpless.

Time was up and you looked back down at Harry, his jaw was stiff and his eyes daring you to say no. You were well and truly trapped and you had no way out.

“Yes. I will marry you.” With that, everyone cheered and clapped, except your loved ones. As you placed your chin on Harry’s shoulder, embracing him, you watched Lance wipe away his tears before turning around to walk off, Charles and Mick chasing after him. Lando stood there, his mouth wide while Esteban and Pierre shook their heads sadly before trying to coax Lando out of shock. You couldn’t see Seb and Hanna but you knew they were here and you knew they would be disappointed. 

You just hoped that one day you could apologise for all of this.

____________________________________________________

Don't worry y'all, part 2 will be coming very soon. Thanks for letting me vent in the form of lance stroll angst at 2am. Love you all <3

[wisteriagoesvroom]

imagine that you were once a little child. you fell asleep in red and yellow blankets and you dreamt of a fast car. you watched races in coloured pixels, hoisted on your father's shoulders, then you have a chance to smell the burning rubber and engine oil in real life. you climb first into karts of different builds then cars of different colours and the faces change, but your wanting does not.

you might win sometimes, you might win all the time. but most of all you lose and you lose and you still keep going.

and when it happens: you never thought that your entire career could lead to this. that you stand at the pinnacle of your sport. and you believe that you could take this vast and ailing animal and somehow stem the rot, stop it eating itself.

because you believe there’s still something to be gained from fixing this place. that with a lot of grit and perhaps a touch of magic, that you are important – no – capable enough, that you can work hard and make a difference. you are one body against a stampeding herd and you run forwards still. you embrace it with your best efforts and pretend that you don’t fear becoming consumed by it.

you’re not always well liked for it, but you give it your all anyway. you do it because it’s for corsa rosso. tifosi. for all the champions and engineers and hands and bodies that have come before. all for one a chance to be written into history, name in crimson and gold.

this was michael. it could be charles. seb. carlos. it might even be lewis. history repeats itself.

after all: you ask a child what a race car looks like. they'll paint it red.

you ask a child what blood looks like. they'll recognise its hue, before they know to give fear and love a name.

[mychlapci]

time for a few of my favourite sfw cybertronian headcanons!!!!

a big one that is so special to me is cybertronians using their altmodes/altmode features to communicate. i really like smaller cars like bumblebee and cliffjumper beeping when they get startled or when they get excited

bumblebee running around and beeping happily lives in my mind rent free

bigger trucks like magnus and optimus would probably make chuffing noises with their engines as either threat displays or when content. i can so easily imagine optimus as a young soldier honking loudly whenever he's excited. big ole HONK! of sheer joy whenever he gets praised or does something fun

soundwave, blaster, rewind, and other such cybertronians who can record audio or video stim by replaying specific clips. and flight frames like pharma, cyclonus, and the seekers clank their wings together in favour of clapping with their servos. speedsters rev their engines or spin their tires just to burn off extra energy

i also think that communal group bonding is done via altmodes. stuff like sleepovers where it's just a bunch of cars cuddled up to each other, or a group of smaller minibots sprawled out across a convoy like magnus. flight frames probably bond by flying together and speedsters consider challenging others to a race to be a form of getting closer to one another

i imagine that asking someone else to clean your altmode would be a big sign of trust. most altmodes aren't really tailored to quick movements, especially while stationary so perhaps asking someone to help you bathe yourself would be a big deal, especially during the war where resources were scarce and bots were more likely to stab each other in the back over smaller things.

hmm maybe it's even a rite that comes with conjunx ceremonies, both amica and endura. mechs will spend the evenings with their endura to be in the bath, slowly scrubbing down every inch of their partners just to prove they can keep them safe and healthy

grooming might also be another bonding thing. not full out bathing but general stuff, like polishing and getting junk out of the joints. i imagine bigger bots like magnus or overlord might need extra help getting fully buffed and polished because of all their kibble. hmm au where overlord isn't such of a dick and he ends up joining the lost light and the first thing he does to prove that he doesn't wanna cause trouble is ask for help getting all the grit out of his joints.

i'm imagining a little lineup of bots all helping each other polish and wax their plating. maybe even helping with removing plating to get a good scrub at the old protoform. ohhh maybe some bots are small enough to reach deep into vents so that their bigger friend don't need to go to the medic to get themselves fully decontaminated.

i do think that the war complicates things somewhat. luxuries like oil baths and fully solvent showers are rare treats and so many bots are on edge all the time that really asking for help can be hard

hmm i like the idea that the decepticons are actually better at asking for assistance for the autobots. many of them were working class individuals who had to more rely on their communities for assistance when things went wrong

megatron and starscream taking breaks from killing each other to help buff out the scuffs and dents in their plating together. just because starscream knows how annoying it is to reach the hard spots on the back and megatron understands that sometimes starscream doesn't want to burden his trine with cleaning his wings

they go back to killing each other the next day but it's the thought that counts

soundwave and his cassettes helping each other get clean and maybe even dragging shockwave out of his lap to help him with self care. i can so easily imagine frenzy and rumble making a game out of scrubbing shockwave down as fast as possible

the combiner teams always look the best because they know personally that they can fully trust each other

i have too many thoughts about cybertronian cleaning culture for this ask so i'm going to cap it off here

yessssss to all of this. alt-mode communication is so important to me. little honks and beeps, letting sirens go off when you want attention. I bet you Prowl’s police siren has gone off when he was frustrated so many times and he hates it. This isn’t really alt-mode but I always imagine that when Optimus is frustrated his smokestacks start to fume, which is kind of hard to hide… 

I also really like to imagine speedsters, or most grounders really, would bond by going on drives together. And if you have a speedster with a slower grounder, they’d purposefully go slow so that their friend can catch up <33

CLEANING!! GROOMING!!! I LOVE cybertronian grooming practices. deep in my heart i know cleaning is a big thing in cybertronian culture. If you have a species that have seams that are hard to reach, it makes sense cleaning is a communal thing. Of course a cybertronian can wash themself, even properly and thoroughly if they take their time, but it’s much easier to have someone helping you… Maybe it’s a communal communal thing, where multiple cybertronians would regularly wash together, with all kinds of frame-sizes abound to make sure all the little hands get in the smallest crooks and the big hands can clean off the smaller bots in one quick swipe. Combiner teams are usually the ones who keep this tradition well into the war because they’re mostly a hive-mind so they know they won’t really hurt one another. 

now i’m thinking about lost light communal washes. in a normal way.

[rofeibi]

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Also Read : https://rofeibi.com/blog/why-low-velocity-equals-low-quality-in-car-racing-engine-oil/

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[pinkpinkstarlet]

yall who do u think each cars character would be if they took the role of a Disney villain?

here’s my opinion as of now:

@champmorado @alaztortarrant28 @x0stormie0x

while those like gaston and hades might fit him, I also have another proposition (since I also think francesco would be gaston and chick hicks would be hades).

lightning as the evil queen.

like hear me out

Instead of being obsessed with being the fairest in the land, he’s obsessed with being the FASTEST in the land.

What if we took the self discovering and maturing journey lightning had to realize that his place was now to help cruz become a better racer just like doc did with him and flipped it on its head?

Instead of being proud of cruz as her new mentor with how much she’s growing as a racer and accepting that, while he still will race, he’s not the best of the field anymore, he becomes increasingly jealous of anyone who surpasses him and immediately takes action, which means killing them. I’m imagining this more on a fantasy au but this can also apply somehow to the canon of the cars universe.

Lightning is absolutely terrified of becoming even slightly slower. He needs to be the fastest or he’s done for, it doesn’t matter that he’s the literal ruler of an entire kingdom. If someone surpasses him, to him, it’s the destruction of his entire stability and self esteem. Of course this has rarely happened, and when it did, they were instantly taken care of thanks to his huntsman MATER and his efficiency with his tasks.

He sees the potential in Cruz and decides to do all he can try and quash it: limit her surroundings, giving her poorly manufactured oil (or something), anything to make her chances of becoming faster than him absolutely impossible.

But it’s inevitable. When he asks his mirror (which doc is inside btw) who the fastest is, he answers that it’s Cruz. Outraged, he immediately orders mater to kill her and bring her engine as proof that the deed had been committed. Mater is more hesitant to do this but lightning reminds him of the consequences if he fails. And it happens, kind of. You know how the story goes.

When lightning learns that she isn’t dead, he transforms into a weaker, rustier car to try and look like a “lemon” and trick cruz. Of course, that never works out for the evil queen in the end, no matter who it is.

I might sound cringe here but hear me out guys hear me out

[deke-rivers-1957]

Scott's World of Tomorrow

It was February 1956, a young Scott Heyward had just turned 16 years old. His father, Duster Heyward of Heyward Oil is about to spoil him.

"Well son taday's yer birthday. What do ya wanna do?"

"Can we go to Disneyland Pa? They have a whole section called Tomorrowland and a race car track called Autopia."

Mr. Heyward smiles as he claps Scott's shoulder.

"Tha's mah boy. Disneyland's gonna be a great client ta have. Can't be runnin no rides without oil."

"Yeah and maybe if they have real cars there I can take some notes for the research department."

Mr. Heyward chuckles as he goes to the phone.

"Ah'll just let yer tutor know yer goin on a field trip. That oughta make 'em happy yer doin yer science project."

"Ok, Pa."

Time Skip

"Alright then son. Ah'm gonna be talk with some a Disney's people. They said some fella named Bob Gurr's gonna be walkin ya through Autopia."

"Wow. Thanks Pa!"

Scott sits down on a bench with his camera and notepad. A young man his 20s approaches him.

"Are you Scott Heyward?"

"Yes. Are you Mr. Gurr?"

"That I am. Just call me Bob today. It's really an honor to have you and father come to the park today."

The two shake hands and start to walk to Tomorrowland.

"Now as you can see, the Moonliner was designed by one of my colleagues, John Hench and of course sponsored by Howard Hughes of Trans World Airlines."

Scott takes some pictures as they walk through the attraction. They get to the Monsanto Hall of Chemistry.

"Are you familiar with Monsanto, Scott?"

"Oh yes. I was only 7 when they had that explosion down in Texas City. Pa sent a crew to bring oil down to the site. He managed to get a deal where we can have a couple ships down at the port."

Bob nods. Eventually they make it to Autopia.

"Now this is what I helped design. I used what I learned from working with Ford."

"You worked with Ford? What did you do?"

"Well I helped design the Lincoln Continental. I published a few books on automotive design and that's what brought Mr. Disney's attention over to me. He wanted me to analyze the chassis for these cars. Originally designed by Hartmann Engineering, they were having issues regarding the ability to be mass produced. Too noisy and smokey with a lot of vibration. Eventually the company dropped out so I was brought on permanently to come up with a different design."

Scott's writing all of this down the best he can. Mr. Gurr's slowly turning into an idol.

"So where did you get the design for the cars? They don't look like anything I've ever seen."

"Take a closer look. If you're familiar with Porsche, I took the idea of their 54 550 Spyder and combined it with the recent custom made Italian Ferraris. Of course the Chevrolet Corvette also served as inspiration."

"Wow."

Bob continues telling his story. Scott listens to every word including everything about engineering he has yet to learn.

"What make are these cars now?"

"Currently these are the Mark II's. I had to fix the chassis so they can accommodate a sturdier, smoother-running engine. We've been getting a lot of youngsters so it was necessary to add booster seats and extensions on the peddles. I just finished a prototype for the Mark III and already started work on the Mark IVs"

"Why? What's wrong with these models?"

"Longevity and ease of repair. With how popular this attraction is getting it's only a matter of time before these cars will need repairing. Every month we're learning something new about what people like and don't like about the car. Just goes to show that even when a product is a success, there's still a lot that needs to be done to perfect it."

Scott writes this down as Bob finishes talking.

"Would you like to ride in one of these, Scott?"

"Yes! I'd love to."

Bob chuckles as they wait in line to ride in one of the cars.

Time Skip

"How was yer trip son?"

"I loved it Pa. Mr. Gurr let me take so many pictures and showed me all of Tomorrowland."

Mr. Heyward smiles as they make their way back to Texas. Scott would recite his notes and Bob's story. His father could only nod along as he never really got into the science side of business.

"Well Ah bet yer science project'll turn out real good."

"Oh yeah Pa. Until science finds a better way, everything needs oil. Even the rockets."

"Thatta boy. Yer gonna be takin Heyward Oil inta space."

Scott smiles and sits back in his seat. He starts to fantasize about making his own world of tomorrow.

AN: Shoutout to @xanatenshi for requesting this story.

Tagging: @mercsandmonsters, @georgefairbrother, @imaginationlast, @hooked-on-elvis, @arrolyn1114,

@teamnefarious​, @blighted-star, @ab4eva, @thetaoofzoe, @vintagepresley,

@myradiaz, @jaqueline19997, @kiankiwi, @ahundredlifetime, @mydarlingelvis,

@tupelomiss, @elvispresleywife, @karel-in-wonderland, @tacozebra051, @sillybookmarks,

@dusintv, @velvetelvis, @livelaughelvis, @slayingjd, @anamiad00msday,

@mistyspresley, @i-r-i-n-a-a, @yoooooooh, @southcarolinawoman, @peaceloveelvis,

@squaggleson, and @idk583838.

[cazzyf1]

Mike Hawthorn talking about his race in the 1958 British GP

Transcription below the cut

Interviewer: After how his car behaved in the race, Mike says...

Mike: Ummm, well not very well actually. It started off quite well and in the second lap it started pouring oil out left hand side of the engine onto the exhaust pipe. I saw these puffs of white smoke going and I thought it won't last long now. We went on quite happily, slowed down in revs, slowed down a bit. Umm, I knew it had sort of run out of oil sooner than later so I was watching the oil pressure gage and that dropped down from around about six or seven and went down to two and a half so I thought time to go in so I came in for a quick stop, signalled I was coming in. They filled it up and off I went again and it was well. It went up to three instead of two haha!

Interviewer: You gained the maximum speed didn't you in one of the laps today.

Mike: Yes! I did, I was very suprised by that. I didn't think I'd do that.

Interviewer: That was before you noticed the oil trouble?

Mike: No, No, this happened right at the beginning, second lap of the race, but um, when I refilled with oil, they gave me a signal saying, Salvadori was ten seconds behind so I thought I'd better get my finger out and press on a bit. And uh, I think I must have done it then. I didn't mean to! I didn't think I had a home giving advantage.

Interviewer: Well congratulations Mike, and uh what is the next race?

Mike: German Grand Prix at the Nürburgring. A fortnight tomorrow.

Interviewer: Well the best of luck *something I can't make out*

Mike: Well I'll try to.

[imaginaryari]

Off to the races

The garage is a huge, echoing space that only held three vehicles at any given time. It was Manuel’s space to work as cars were rare in the city. The García family’s contribution to the city was the tranvía system and maintaining that system. Cars were a threat to that, not that Manuel cared, nor did his mother discourage him from it. He had to use his engineering education on something and if it wasn’t going to be the trains, the cars were the next best thing. Manuel did not look like someone who got his hands dirty, as the only man in his family he was trained a bit harder into personal upkeep than most men his age. The cars kept him defiantly covered in oil and constantly stained his clothes. Manuel cleaned up nice, but that was not what he preferred.

Enrique liked watching Manuel work. Something about the passion his friend had for these cars but also the fact no one ever came into the garage while he was working. Sometimes Enrique lent a hand, learning more about Manuel and the cars. Other times like today he sat and watched as they talked about anything and everything.

“So, are you going to tell me his name or keep pretending to tighten that screw?” Enrique asks.

Manuel slows his actions and lets out a small laugh. “Why? Are you afraid he has bad intentions?”

“Oh, I know he does, and you do too. Trust me I’m not worried,” Enrique says. Manuel barks out a laugh. “Just curious. I’m allowed to be curious, no?”

Manuel puts his wrench down, grabbing a stained towel to wipe his hands. “His name is Ignacio,” Manuel crosses his arms and takes a step towards Enrique’s seat in the corner, “He’s a racer, and he’s from Amora.”

Enrique whistles, trying to find something encouraging to say. Their families wouldn’t be thrilled to know they involved themselves with people from Amora.

“Yeah, I know I know. But I like him a lot and you’re meeting him soon.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you’ll like him too. Mom thinks were going to watch a game if you need an excuse.”

 In truth it doesn’t matter what white lie he tells his parents because Enrique will always be shadowed by Raphael. It’s a matter of bribing the man tasked with reporting his every move to his parents.

—

They’re in one of Manny’s precious creations cruising down the highway. It’s not one of his flashier works like the bright yellow coupe or the orange convertible but a discreet copper sedan that blends in with normal traffic. He’s not even speeding.

“Where exactly is this guy?” Ricky asks when the roads start looking slightly unfamiliar.

“Why? Are you worried I’ll get us lost?” Manny jokes. He’s been vague about the whole trip, never directly answering Ricky. They’re going to see this “friend” of Manny’s and that’s all he knows. Manny had said dressed casually and Ricky had made an attempt only for Manny to sigh and try to mess up his clothes.

Ricky scoffs. “The city will freeze before I get lost in it.”

“Then stop worrying. This is gonna be fun trust me.” And Ricky does because Manny is a man of his word.

They pull up to what should be a park in Soledo. On every map it’s marked as such but it’s been heavily repurposed. Gone are the markings and lines for fútbol fields. Instead, a road’s been carved around. It takes a second for Ricky to realize it’s a racetrack.

Manny’s parked them far from the action. There’s a brief moment where Ricky thinks they’ll have to walk all way to track but then another car pulls up beside them. It’s Manny’s orange convertible. The driver offers them a charming and contagious smile and Ricky understands.

“This is Nacio. Nacio this is my friend Ricky.” Manny introduces the man and Ricky is finally glad to have a name and face for the person Manny been swooning over for weeks.

His hair is cropped, and he has fading scars on his face and hands, surely exciting stories from his line of work or recreational hobby. He is rugged in all the ways Manny is not.

“Hop in.”

“How’d you get your hands on this beauty?” Ricky asks sliding into the backseat. More things click into place as he realizes he stopped seeing this car when Manny started his obsession with Nacio.

“He won it fair and square.” Manny says, boasting as if he was the one in the winner’s circle.

Nacio maneuvers the convertible like he’s always known it. Easily and smoothly bringing it back to the track. Ricky wants more to the story but doesn’t press. Saving it for next time he wants to embarrass his best friend.

Trackside is full of energy as spectators place their bets and talk to the racers. One of the information booths had been repurposed into a concession stand and a bar. Manny orders them two beers and empanadas.

“Would you like to place a bet?” The concession lady asks.

Manny smiles at her, “No, not this time.”

Nacio revs the engine of Manny’s car, and a gray coupe responds with one of its own. As the flag girl struts out to the front of the cars, Enrique nearly chokes on his beer.

Manny pats his back, as he coughs. “You alright?”

“I know her,” Enrique rasps out once his throat stops burning.

Sophia lifts the flag up in the air, and time seems to freeze as the seconds tick by, before she drops her arm. Enrique barely registers the screeching sound the two cars make as they speed off, eyes fixed on Sophia. She’s stunningly windblown as she stares after the racing cars.

“The flag girl?”

“Yeah she…” Enrique hesitates. He hadn’t told Manny about what really happened to the pocket watch. “She was at Violet’s party.”

“The one who ran off after the quake? How do you know it’s her?”

Sophia finally turns away from the cars that are now out of eyesight and makes her way towards the concessions. She does a double take as she finally locks eyes with Enrique and walks purposefully and angrily towards him.

“Are you stalking me?” She asks, on arm on her hip and brows furrowed in rage.

Enrique places his arms up in surrender, “I promise I’m not.”

“Relax, señorita,” Manny injects. “He means no harm.”

“Can we start over? Please?” Enrique begs.

“What?”

“Start over, it’s clear we got off on the wrong foot. Made some bad first impressions.”

Sophia’s expressions softens, taken a bit back. “I…don’t actually think we did.” She says, honestly.

“Oh really?”

“Don’t get smug, Enrique.”

“My friends call me Ricky,” he says with a grin.