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lvrclerc · 1 month ago

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✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company.

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised.

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute.

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger.

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.”

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look, “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment.

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto fanfic

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yourlocalsmutwriter · 2 months ago

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Kutning's Dag - Max Verstappen x reader

cw: dubcon/ cnc, rapeplay, intox kink, unprotected sex, creampie, public, perv! Max, icky! Max

At this point in the season, Max Verstappen needed a miracle. He had heard it all, at the start. That the car was so fucked he dragged it first to podium, then to the points, but what happened when this was not the case. Amateur theorists- that's what he called F1 podcasters- had predicted that it would be sooner than later. And he had shut them down in Japan. Suzuka was a dream. Fourth consecutive pole there in the last seconds of quali. Fourth consecutive win there, the return of the F1 outro, as the fans dubbed it. But the Dutch anthem didn't stick around the podium for long. There were a few hiccups after, but not for the McLarens. His 1 point behind Lando was gradually increasing. He was feeling like a fish out of water, for the first time in his career. The retirement jokes he so brazenly made during previous months were now met with hushed whispers. It didn't help that the Redbulls were down in the constructors championship too. They took Liam, and with the way Yuki was driving, Max could bet one of his cats that Hadjar was getting fitted for a seat soon, whether the rookie driver wanted it or not. Verstappen's fake Instagram even liked a few Helmut Marko as the 2nd driver memes, a bunch of Daniel cursing the thing too. But it seemed to be true now.

So Max Verstappen desperately needed to win the Miami Grand Prix. After a triple header that started promising and two weekends of pure hell, something needed to be done. Whatever. Literally anything. He remembered last year how Lando's first victory in the sunny state triggered this chain of events. This championship contender narrative that was heating up between the two since. Lando then, with his little nose scar, who had been partying in the Amsterdam canals before. A metaphorical lightbuls sparked up above Max’s head. If you can't beat them, join them. He was going to celebrate King's Day for the first time in a while.

Of course, he used to honor the holiday as a teenager. Which 17 year old doesn't go across the border to the Netherlands to drink copious amounts of alcohol in the streets. He was lucky that his mom and sister brought him in at the end of the night. It was a fun time. Lots of bad beer. Crowds of loud people dressed head to toe in orange. Music that everyone knew shouted at the top of one's lungs. Then, with the years, he was too busy racing for such frivolity. But now the calendar was smiling up to him, a nice little break between Jeddah and Miami. It was a nice opportunity for him to fly back to the Netherlands, try the "Lando method," and come back. Copious amounts of gin tonics and a few kebabs never hurt anyone. Especially on King's Day. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Nevertheless, Max did it.

Once his plane touches down on Dutch soil, he realizes this was a mistake. He's forced to take a train and be packed like a sardine in first class. "No, I'm not him, but I get that a lot," he says, ad naseum, eyes glued to the maroon seats around him. Once he makes it to Amsterdam, he all but scours the city, going from store to store, trying to see if there's any alcohol left. He piles premixed cans of gin and tonics into his Alpha Tauri backpack. He sure is an ambassador now. But his quest isn't just a way for him to grab some booze. No, he's strategically scoping out areas where he won't be spotted. Where the crowds were just drunk and rowdy enough to ignore him, but not thay quiet and sober that he'd be bored. One would try to rationalize that most people didn't bat an eye at Lando. Who knows, Max could even accidentally spot the Britton on his way, dj skills being tested on a party boat. And people wouldn't care. We'll that was a bit harsh, there would be many overjoyed fans. But not as many as Max's. It was the fucking Netherlands, we was treated as the second coming of Christ. Or the first, depending on the province. Amsterdam was definitely not on the Bible belt, so that was that. Still, the Dutchman took some precautions. He hid out, going over to long lost friends' houses. People who he had known since karting, all drinking together, wearing orange, and treating him like a normal guy. Yes, there were some offhand comments about F1 and the Redbull performance. There's a few people trying to get him to help them with their fantasy team too.

He offers them a pass at his own ranking if they beat him at a drinking game. And those he never loses, always choosing to go for reflexes or showing feats of physical strength. After all, those hours in the gym aren't for nothing. Max is more than pleasantly buzzed by the time they have to leave. It's past 10, and people are already plastered. Of course, this was strategic. It was more plausible that people got a mass hallucination of Max Verstappen after a few dozen beers. He steps out through the crowd, shoes already sticking to the pavement. The smell of sweat and vomit and beer is in the air.

Max reflexively pulls the orange army cap over his own face, especially when they play anything by Maxx Power. He grins when they play 5 remixes in a row, the dj shouting something about a 5th WDC incoming. Max is happy that at least the fans are happy they believe in him, albeit delusionally. He relaxes, the tension sliding off of him like dirty air. He's too relaxed, almost, and now his mind is wondering how. Yes, the 6 pack of gin and tonics helped. He almost sniffs the air and gets hit with a string smell, similar to the one from the house. He reluctantly takes a hit of this green electronic thing and coughs. It's good, but weird.

"Didn't know vapes were this popular here?" He shouts to his friend, who deadpan that it's weed. Of course, Max almost smack his forehead. He's contact high, just like half the grid was in Vegas. He remembers that day, letting the flashbacks warm over him. Yep, he was fucking fucked.

Max decided that he'd fight the weirdness and tingliness of his body by people watching. What better way to be distracted by analyzing others. He blends into the crowd, only because people are packed like sardines. Mostly friends, big crowds of people dancing, drinking and shouting with each other. He doesn't miss the rowdier ones. There's couples making out and dry humping all around him.

He feels like a teenager all over again, that awkward virgin 17 year old at house parties. Hormones not as contained as he'd like to, popping a boner at other people's activities. If he listened very hard, everything was sexy. He'd hear the little moans and groans of the couple, the pleas for more. Everything made his cock stand up and throb painfully in his pants. And now, 10 years later, it's the same. Max never pegged himself as a voyeur. But now, with every sensation in his body heightened, he couldn't help it. And with his dick needing release and fast, he sets out to find someone willing to do that. His gaze searches, he's like a hawk looking for a bunny. And his eyes land on you.

You hated King's Day. It was a stupid holiday, a Saw trap thing made to torture you. You hated the gaudy orange color. The public drinking. The stupid songs you didn't know as a foreigner. You should've stayed home. But here you were, freezing in a two-piece set. You hate the flimsy fabric of the thing. You only ordered it last minute to impress an ex, who you knew you'd run into. You didn't expect to find them with their tongue down the throat of a mutual acquaintance. But you made a vow that you'd make out with someone. So far, your lips only touched the bottle. Whatever they were drinking was strong, made you feel woozy and light. At least you were doing King's Day right, getting very intoxicated. You didn't even flinch when you felt a pair of hands glide dangerously close to your ass. The whole night, it kept happening, accidentally, sometimes not. It was the crowds, you reasoned, because you were practically sandwiched between many backs and elbows. Then someone did really feel you up from behind. God, his fingers were deliberate. Groping, touching, all short of clawing. Needing you, needing this, and it was gross. The man apologized, a faint sorry from under the rim of an orange hat. You had mentally prepped a joke about redbull giving him more than wings or an aggressive overtake. And then he does it again, this time his hands loop against your hips, seemingly trying to move you out of his way. His fingers hook against the straps of your orange thong and snap them. You want to scream, yell, to tell him to stop. But it's as if you've swallowed cotton. And the warmth of someone's touch against you was clouding your judgment. The stranger lets his fingers move up your bare stomach until your tits. He flicks at your already hard nipples, a little hum of appreciation. He comments that you're practically asking for it by not wearing a bra.

The voice is familiar, even though you can't exactly place it. Didn't all Dutch men all kinda sound the same. This one's hands were kneading your breasts roughly, more for him than for you. He was whispering absolute filth in your ears, the brim of the hat he won't take off digging into your shoulder. He smells like a gin brewery that was next to a coffeeshop.

"Look at you, just letting me touch you. Aren't you ashamed that a total stranger's groping your tits. Right in the middle of Amsterdam, mind you, with thousands of people around you. I think you like it. I think you're a little whore. Because if you wanted to, you could have asked for help. Look there, bimbo," he says as he grabs your chin and tilts your head towards the police at the edge of the crowd. "You want me to stop? Let's walk over there, and I'll let you report me. Hell, I'd even turn myself in. Yeah? Go tell the nice cop about me, I'm right behind you."

You try to move, and he follows. The stranger even lets his hands fall from your chest. But with every step you take, you end up going 3 steps back. It's a Sysyphean challenge. You stop suddenly, and the guy stops with you. You two are surrounded and pressed against each other. You're not sure who makes the first move again. You just know that you're rubbing your ass against his hard cock like an animal in heat.

He rolls his hips against yours, lifting your skirt with every movement. He can't help but knead your ass, feeling your skin prickle under his touch. When the stranger hears a low wolf whistle, you're dragged, literally through the crowd. He's taken his cap off and he's barking orders in Dutch and English, parting the people like they're the Red Sea. He ducks with you in an alley and you swear your drink was laced.

"Max Verstappen? What the fuck are you doing here?" You say, still unsure of what was happening. He shuts you up with a kiss, a bit sloppy and needy. You kiss him back, but then it all starts to be too much. He was a renowned athlete, a role model. Not someone who got a bit too handsy. That dawns on both of you at the same exact time.

"You could ruin my life. You could actually go to anybody about this, and they'll strip me of everything. It'll be Mazepin again, but this time with consequences." He says, and instead of stepping away, he begins unbuttoning his jeans. Sliding his boxers away and taking out his cock. Sizing it up against you. You plead with him.

He pretends to think as his hands go in your panties. He tells you how he's in deep shit as his fingers rub your clit. He goes on about how you should report him, how despite his celebrity status and the inebriated state you're both in, he's going down. You try to mention police injustice, how the odds are against you, even bring up Christian Horner. Your body betrays you as you talk. Your hips snap to match his movements.

"They'll come up with some bullshit excuse. That I was too wet or something. No signs of struggle, no bruises on you or something of the sort." You chastise, as he slides his fingers inside of you. One, then a second, in a hooking motion. He moves them with precision and you blush. In the small alley the sounds of your wetness echo. Max knows exactly how to press his fingers inside of someone to make them fall apart. You cum against him, despite yourself. You press yourself close to him, shut your eyes and let the orgasm wash over you. You're limp, letting him tap the head of his cock against your clit. Allowing him to thrust inside of you, burrying himself to the hilt. Telling you that "if he's gonna go down for this, at least he's gonna make it worth his while."

He tells you how good your cunt feels, how well you take his cock. He holds you down, muscles pressing into you, keeping you in place. He goes on this tangent about coming inside of you, leaving you something to remember him by. You don't have the heart to tell him he's the first and only man to fuck you raw. That his blue eyes and all of today will haunt your dreams. You can't express that what he's doing to you terrifies you, yet thrills you. That you just might be sick in the head for not hating this. Your warm wet cunt was drawing him in. Wanting him. Needing him. You bite your lips bloody. Yet he still catches your whisper of "please, come for me." His thrusts become faster, and he spills inside of you. If this were real life, he'd leave after that, blend into the crowd, and accept his fate. He'd wait for the other shoe to drop and get what was coming to him for being a disgusting pervert who touches women.

But it wasn't real life. Max was in a stupidly expensive Monaco sex club. Their new marketing ploy - get you in the door for a free visit and impress you so much you come back. He had to hand it to them, they followed up with him like a champ. Getting extras to play the drunk and disorderly dutchies. Even the set of the alley was good. Max casts a glance at you, his throughly fucked out girlfriend. You're sleeping with a grin on your face. He remembers the day you told him about your unusual kink. How the two of you would dabble in it, occasionally. He'd pretend to break into your shared apartment and rape you. You had been so loud and rowdy that night that your neighbors called the cops on you. But just before the sirens, you had come on Max's cock so hard, he swore he could marry you right then. After he was done politely explaining the misunderstanding to the policemen, he started googling. And a couple months later, here you two were. Completely immersive experience. And no sheets to wash. Max feels bad for the person who has to clean the floor after you squirt on it. In his defense, you didn't even know you could do that. He lets himself be photographed leaving the club with you in tow. Shoots off a few messages to his friends and the other drivers on the grid to also try it out. If he creates enough buzz, they'll give him a discount. And it's not as if his hefty paycheck doesn't allow him to visit sooner. Especially after he wins Miami. Because he has several bets going on - one with Christian, one with GP and one with Lando. He gets them all, collects the cash and says he'll invest it. He puts it on another night with you. Because the true key to Max Verstappen's winning strategy was a well fucked girlfriend.

#cw: dubcon #cw dubcon #cw dubious consent #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #darkfic #dark max verstappen #dark f1 #dead dove do not eat #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fic

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itsnesss · 1 month ago

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hihi!! could you please do a younger driver (like ollie or kimi) and a piece on missing the reader’s graduation bc of a race?

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you graduate, but ollie misses it because of a race. you give your speech, heart heavy, thinking of him

warnings | fluff, soft romance, mild angst, long-distance struggles, emotional vulnerability, comfort

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your dress has been hanging in the closet for days, protected by a garment bag. It’s the same one you picked out with your mom, the one Ollie said made you look like a movie star.

Less than 24 hours to your graduation, and as you place the cap on the bed, you check your phone one more time. Nothing. No new messages. No calls. No news from Ollie.

You knew. You knew there was a chance. A high chance, to be honest, that he wouldn’t make it. But you had made so many plans… He himself promised he would try everything to be there.

“What if I get there just at the end, and I give you a hug when you finish your speech?” he had said excitedly, days before.

You practiced that speech with him. Several times. On video calls from hotels all around the world. He corrected you, laughed when you made a bad joke, asked you to say it slower when you rushed.

And you did it hoping that, when you walked on stage and read the final words, his eyes would be waiting for you in the audience.

But now, less than a day away, everything points to him not being there.

You sit on the bed and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail.

You take a deep breath, swallowing the disappointment. He loves you. You know that. But sometimes loving someone who also loves their dream is… lonely.

You want to scream. Not at him. At the world.

Then, your phone vibrates.

A voice message from Ollie.

“Hey... love. I’m sure you probably already know what I’m about to say. I tried, really. But I’m not going to make it. I’m stuck here because of the rankings. They won’t let me move anything. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I thought if I didn’t tell you earlier, there might still be a tiny chance. But there isn’t…”

Pause.

“It hurts more than I can explain not to be there tomorrow. I know how much it means to you. To both of us. But even if I can’t see you walk across that stage, I’ll be watching you from wherever I am. And when you finish, when you have your diploma in your hands… call me. Please. Because even if I can’t hug you, I promise I’ll be with you in everything that comes after.”

A tear escapes.

Tomorrow is still ahead.

The sun falls perfectly over campus when you leave the house with your cap in hand and your eyes still swollen from crying the night before. You look in the rearview mirror of your dad’s car and smile automatically. You’ve waited for this day for years. You imagined it again and again. But in all those versions… Ollie was there.

When you get out of the car, everyone seems to be shining. Your classmates take selfies, some rush to meet their families, others joke about not tripping going up the stage. You just look for a face you already know you won’t find.

The ceremony begins. Your name is on the program. You’re going to give a speech. One you practiced with him. One you read over and over so he could hear it between training, interviews, and flights.

“Now, please welcome our graduating class’s guest speaker…”

You’re asked to go up.

The lights blind you a little. The auditorium is huge. It feels bigger without him.

“Good afternoon. I want to start with something very simple… thank you.”

Your voice is steady. No one notices how tightly you grip the edge of the podium, or how your eyes wander over the rows, hoping to see him somewhere. Hoping you could trick fate and make him appear.

“Thank you to my teachers, my parents, my friends… and to someone who isn’t here today. Though he was in every rehearsal, in every word of this speech. This person… believed in me when I didn’t. He listened, encouraged me, interrupted me with bad jokes so I wouldn’t take everything so seriously. And even though he’s not sitting here today… he’s with me. I’m sorry. Because that’s what the people we love do: they’re there, even when they can’t be.”

There’s a long silence. Some people applaud. Others smile, not fully understanding who you meant.

But you know. And that’s enough.

When you step down from the stage, your chest burns a little. Pride, sadness, a warm hollow that carries his name.

You go through the ceremony like a spectator of your own movie. You receive your diploma. You get hugs. Your parents congratulate you. Friends take pictures with you.

And you smile. Because you made it this far.

But something is missing. And no matter how much you deny it, you feel it.

Later, when you’re at home, the dress already wrinkled and the cap on the table, your phone vibrates.

Ollie: Can I call you?

You answer with a simple “Yes.”

Seconds later, his name appears on the screen. You pick up.

“Hi,” you say, barely a whisper.

“You look beautiful,” he says without hesitation.

“How do you know?”

“I watched the whole stream. I had an interview at the same time, but I snuck away. I saw you give the speech. You have no idea how hard it was not to cry like an idiot at the part about ‘the people we love are there, even when they can’t be’…”

You bite your lip. There’s a huge knot in your throat.

“I really wanted you to be there.”

“Me too. Every second. Every damn second. Can I send you something?”

Before you can answer, a notification arrives.

An attached file. A video.

You open it.

It’s Ollie, in his hotel room, still wearing his team suit, holding a small homemade sign that says “Congrats, love. You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s cheesy,” he laughs from the phone. “But I made it while watching the ceremony. Just in case… you couldn’t see me, so at least you’d know I was with you. In my way.”

And you… you break down crying. Silently. With the full weight of having wanted that moment so badly with him.

“Thank you, Ollie.”

“I’m going to make it up to you. All of it. I promise.”

“No need. Just… thank you for not making me feel alone, even though you were so far away.”

Silence. Warmth.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, steady.

Your heart stops for a second.

“I love you too.”

And at that moment, even though you’re miles apart, even though you haven’t seen each other, even though there’s no photo of you both at your graduation… you know this day will live in your memory as one of the most beautiful ever.

Only three days have passed since your graduation, but it feels like an eternity. After the call with Ollie, everything was bittersweet: you knew he loved you, you knew he tried, but not being able to hug him that day hurt more than you thought.

And you accepted it. You learned to let go of the idea of “the perfect moment.”

Today is Sunday, and you’re at home, in pajamas, watching a documentary you’re barely listening to. Your family is out. You have the house to yourself. Your phone is silent. You don’t even know what country Ollie is in now.

Someone rings the doorbell.

You frown. A package? A neighbor? You get up dragging your feet, expecting anything but what you see when you open the door.

“Hi, love.”

And there he is.

With his suitcase at his side, a cap crooked on his head, hair messy like he just ran out of the airport. His eyes lock onto yours like he can’t believe he’s really seeing you. Like he’s afraid you’re part of a jet-lagged dream.

And you… you’re frozen in shock.

“Ollie,” you whisper.

“I didn’t want to miss another important thing. I took the first flight after the GP. I just arrived. I couldn’t tell you. My battery died, I lost signal, then I got lost in the airport… but… I’m here. And I don’t care how I look now, or that I don’t have a gift, or that I’m sweating like crazy. I just needed to see that you were okay.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

And then you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just hug him like your body finally remembers what breathing well means. Like he fits with your chest, your arms, your story.

He laughs into your neck, his hands firm on your back.

“It was so hard not to cry earlier,” he murmurs. “But this… this is a miracle.”

You pull him tighter.

“It’s not a miracle. It’s that you love me.”

He pulls back a little just to look at you. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face.

“So much.”

“Want to come in?” you ask with a teary smile.

“Only if you give me coffee and a tour of a brilliant graduate.”

“I’ll give you anything. But the tour starts with you hugging me for another half hour.”

“Deal.”

You close the door. He puts down his suitcase. And without another word, you hug again in the hallway, as if the world has finally aligned.

#🖇️ ollie bearman #oliver bearman x you #oliver bearman x reader #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman #oliver bearman #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader

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sswed · 2 months ago

Text

is it a crime?

alexia putellas x policeofficer!reader

A/N: pure unadulterated smut and a g!p reader, thus minors DNI, thanks

part two found here: everybody knows im a good girl, officer

wc 2.6k

Alexia doesn't actually know just how she gets herself in these kinds of situations but this isn't really the time. She's gotten pulled over, in a foreign country, where she can barely speak the language and the only other person in the car is Jana.

Which means that they aren't getting to the stadium on time or maybe even today for that matter.

You gesture for Alexia to roll down the window and she feels her breath get taken away for a moment. You have the sleeves on your uniform rolled up, which allows her a peak at your rather muscular forearms and the vest you're wearing is tight around your chest.

You're like the hot cops out of those weird police dramas that play on the television sometimes and Alexia cannot believe her luck. If you weren't the one pulling her over, she'd ask if you wanted tickets to the game or maybe even her number.

You knock on the window and Alexia scrambles to roll it down while shushing Jana's giggles.

"Afternoon, ma'am," You say politely while taking a look inside the car.

Jana is sitting in the passenger seat and you can only see two bags on the back seat, both black and from nike. Nothing to worry about really which makes this so much easier to dismiss.

"Afternoon," Alexia replies in a murmur.

"Licence please," You put your hand out and take Alexia's drivers licence to glance over it quickly.

You smile, "Do you know the speed limit here?"

Alexia curses under her breath and looks around, all the street signs show only directions. She's about to get a ticket, in England, while she's running late for pre-match training. She knew that she shouldn't have let Jana convince her to rent a car for the few days they were here.

"Err..."

You laugh a little and smile kindly again, "Where are you from?"

Alexia feels her heart speed up at the dimples on your face and the way you casually lean against the car to run a hand through your hair.

"She's from Barcelona!" Jana leans over Alexia with a grin, clearly she's a little more outspoken than Alexia.

Your eyes lighten up. The time to use your Spanish has finally come and maybe your co-workers would stop teasing you for taking classes every week if you tell them that it has finally come in handy.

"Right, I'll let you off with a warning this time but be careful and pay attention to the speed limit, okay?"

Alexia is taken aback. Your Spanish is flawless, like a local's and she wonders whether you're from Spain even though you don't look like you are.

"Y-yes, of course," Alexia stutters out and elbows Jana when goes to lean over again.

You pat the hood of her car and lean back, "Have a nice day."

"You too!" Jana waves at you and you wave back as you walk to your police car.

Alexia turns to Jana abruptly, "Never again."

Jana laughs while Alexia starts the car again.

"You thought she was hot, Ale!"

Alexia clenches her jaw and decides to ignore her passenger, instead she turns on the radio and drives to the stadium. This time following traffic rules.

Barcelona won over Chelsea the next day. They go from being two down in aggregate to winning 4-2 mostly due to Aitana and Pina but they all go to celebrate with the fans in the away end.

To Alexia's surprise, you're there with a Barcelona shirt on, hugging Lucy and congratulating her with a pat on the back. The shirt you're wearing is a little tight, clearly not yours but Alexia thinks it looks brilliant on you anyway.

"You have to come to the party!" Lucy's trying to convince you to join their "party" in order to properly celebrate the win and place in the final.

"Don't you have training tomorrow or something?"

You shrug her arm off you and raise a brow. You've known Lucy for a while now, ever since secondary school actually so it would be a sin to miss a game of hers if she's playing in England but that doesn’t stop her from being annoying.

"Tomorrows a free day," Lucy argues and you sigh, she's stubborn like a mule.

"I have work tomorrow," You try but Lucy doesn't fall for it.

"You have a night shift, so you're free."

You scoff and eventually nod. You'll stay for a maximum of an hour, then when Lucy finally lets you go, you'll take the opportunity to slip away.

The opposite happens. Lucy drags you around to meet everyone, one by one and you introduce yourself to them, mostly using Spanish and before you know it, it's been two hours and a drink later.

"Now this is la Reina or capitana."

You blink a few times. This is the exact same woman that you pulled over yesterday for speeding. It's just your luck to run into probably the most sexy person you've pulled over at an after party and find out that she's a world class athlete.

You try to smile but it comes out like a grimace, "Hola."

Alexia looks just as shocked. You're still wearing that tight Barca shirt that makes your biceps pop and there is now a visible sweat on your forehead from the heat in the room. You look like walking sex and Alexia wishes that you didn't pull her over yesterday.

"Hi," Alexia replies and then takes a sip of her coke.

You nod at her and turn, hoping that Lucy will drag you away but she's gone. Lucy's just disappeared on you and by doing so, she's left you with Alexia. Who is the hottest person you've ever seen and someone so off limits it's ridiculous.

"Err..." You shuffle awkwardly, gripping the glass in your hand tightly.

Alexia is dressed magnificently. Her t-shirt is perfectly cropped just above the waistline of her jeans and you can't help but let your eyes wander over her figure.

"Listen, can we pretend that I didn't stop you yesterday?" You ask sheepishly and relief floods into you when Alexia nods.

It turns out that you and Alexia get on better than you thought you would. Actually, you hit it off. Talk about your dogs, her job and yours, about London and Spain. Then before you know it, you've been at this party for three hours and you're in a bathroom with your back against the door and Alexia's tongue down your throat.

"Shit, Ale.." You mutter through the kiss.

Your hands are firmly placed on her ass, gripping the fabric of her jeans and occasionally kneading into the flesh. She's gasping into your mouth with her strong arms wrapped around your neck so that she can kiss you comfortably.

Then she lets one of her hands fall from your neck to your stomach where your abs flex under the silky material of the shirt. Alexia runs a nail down the middle of your stomach and you groan into her mouth.

You don't think you've ever been harder in your life and Alexia is making it difficult not to do anything. Then she lets her hand drop to your belt and stops kissing you.

You pull back and look at her with hooded eyes. Alexia looks like a vision, her lips are slightly red and pupils are blown wide open, making her eyes impossible dark.

"Can I, Officer?" Alexia smirks and you can't help but groan.

You nod furiously and Alexia unloops her other arm from around your neck and it joins her other one on your belt. She unbuckles it with quick and nimble fingers then slides one of her hands into your trousers.

"Ah, fuck," You gasp out when a hand palms your clothed cock.

Alexia smirks, "Is that a baton in your pocket... or are you just happy to see me?"

You let out a shaky laugh before moaning deeply when Alexia presses her palm firmly against your cock. God, the feeling is beyond deadly. You need her so bad it hurts.

You give her ass a firm squeeze that makes her jump a little. She's teasing you, letting her hands roam around the inside of your trousers without actually slipping into your underwear. It's making the want pool in your stomach at an alarmingly fast rate.

"Don't tease," You say through clenched teeth, you're desperately trying not to moan loudly.

After all, there is no reason to make this a public announcement.

"Sorry, Officer," Alexia mewls then unexpectedly drops to her knees.

The image is one you'll forever have burned in your mind. She's got her hands on the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you expectedly with a cat-like smirk.

Fuck it, you whine loudly, you've stopped caring about what people think. Right now, you only want her.

Alexia takes that as the go-ahead and swiftly pulls down your underwear. She's greeted by your hard cock and you can't help but hiss at the cold air of the bathroom.

She wraps a hand around you and you moan slowly. You need her, so, so bad but you resist the urge to buck in her hand.

"Come on, please..." You groan out, hands splaying on the polished wood of the door.

Alexia obliges you with a smile and takes you into her mouth. It feels like heaven. Her mouth is so wet and warm that your eyes roll back into your head for a moment.

"Shit," You moan out and resist the urge to tangle your hands into her hair.

Alexia swallows down another inch with ease before taking both of your hands and placing them onto her hair. You raise your brows and only card through her scalp with a gentle hand.

This is clearly not what she meant because Alexia looks up at you a few moments later, then pulls off you to speak.

"Need a little encouragement?" Alexia says suggestively and you scoff.

You take a handful of her hair and urge her back down. You aren't shy this time, you let yourself thrust a little into her mouth and use her hair to stabilize yourself.

"That's so good, shit, you're so good," You murmur out praise in quick succession.

Alexia responds by hollowing her cheeks and sucking harder. You see stars then, she feels so good and you know that you're not going to last long if you keep this up.

You tug Alexia back and off your cock, she, in turn, looks up at you with questioning eyes.

"I want to fuck you, can I?"

Alexia smirks and stands while you tuck yourself back in for a moment. This time, you lift her so that she is seated on the sink and lean forwards to kiss her hard.

You can taste yourself on her lips but you don't care. Your hands roam down her body, feeling every mountain and fall and she's palming your stomach with needy hands.

She pulls back slightly, just so you can still feel her breath going into your mouth and her nose touching yours.

Alexia whispers, "Are you going to fuck me, Officer or no?"

"Be patient and you'll find out."

Your hands travel down to her jeans and you quickly discard them so that they are merely a heap on the marble floor. You then place a hand over her pussy, she's soaking wet. So much so that her underwear is drenched beyond belief.

"Someone's needy," You chuckle and Alexia rolls her eyes.

You kneel down and tug her underwear down, then throw them to join her jeans. You look up at her while you lick a long stripe up her cunt and you can feel the way Alexia shudders underneath you.

"Oh God," Alexia moans loudly and you smirk against her.

"No, no, just me, darling."

Alexia goes to roll her eyes again but mid way through, you twirl your tongue around her clit and her eyes roll back into her head involuntarily.

You suckle on her clit with hollowed out cheeks and Alexia howls above you. The whole place can probably hear it but that's the last thing on your mind right now.

You flick your tongue against Alexia and her hands fly to your hair while her legs wrap around your shoulders. There is practically no way out, not with Alexia's strong thighs wrapped around your head but you don't want an escape either way.

It only takes a few more minutes before Alexia is cursing out loudly, her hands tugging your hair in different directions and her thighs are squeezing around your head.

"Shit, shit-" Alexia moans out quickly and you smirk against her.

You use your hands to pry her thighs off your head and stand once again. Alexia's finger ball up the front of your borrowed shirt and drag you closer until she can kiss you firmly.

"If you don't fuck me now," Alexia mutters the threat into the kiss and you smile.

You pull her off the sink then twirl her around and press her to the front of it. You meet her gaze in the mirror and smirk wildly while she looks at you with slightly widened eyes.

"You want this?" You lean forwards to murmur into her ear and you see her nod in the reflection.

You push down your underwear and wrap a hand around your cock, give yourself a few pumps before sliding into her. She's so wet and tight that you immediately screw your eyes shut and join her in a high pitched moan.

"You feel so good,"

You plant your hands on her hips and give a few shallow thrusts. This is everything you wanted when she suggested going to the bathroom.

You close your eyes and let the sensations overtake you for a moment, she's clenching around you each time you bottom out and it drives you crazy.

You open your eyes and meet Alexia's in the mirror again. She's got her mouth slightly open, panting as you speed up your thrusts. It takes a minute until you find a perfect rhythm but when you do, you have Alexia clawing at the porcelain sink .

"Harder!" Alexia whines out and you give her a thrust that sends her forwards from the force.

"Yeah, right there," She's moaning uncontrollably, loudly so that it echoes through the room.

You think about pressing a palm to her mouth, shushing her but you decide that the damage is done. There's no point trying to be quiet when the two of you have already been too loud.

"I'm close," You whimper out while your thrusts become erratic.

"I'm going to come soon, Ale."

"Give it to me, Officer," Alexia winks at you in the mirror and you can't help yourself.

You groan loudly as you come inside Alexia. It feels Godly and you feel her tighten around you as she reaches her peak as well. You moan lightly as you pull out and brace yourself against the sink.

"That... was," You gasp out, breathing heavily.

Alexia catches her breath next to you. She's got a thin layer of sweat on her face that matches yours and her cheeks are flushed red. You turn to look at her and she presses a soft kiss against your lips.

"Fantastic?" Alexia raises a brow and you laugh.

"Yeah, fantastic."

A loud knock sounds on the door and it is followed by a few others.

"You done, capi?" Patri calls out, clearly laughing.

Then she's joined by Lucy, "You were supposed to be my ride!"

Both your eyes widen and you turn to look at Alexia.

"Maybe we should stay here forever?" You say, embarrassed and flushed.

Alexia nods with wide eyes, "Si."

When you walk out a few moments later, you’re greeted by a crowd of cheers and Lucy’s smirk.

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #barca femini x reader

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plutoslastwords · 5 days ago

Note

Hi can you do dad lando to a toddler where they are on a boat spending time with family and lando teaches her how to swim thanks

splash!

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: this years summer break is a boat trip across the mediterranean. the only problem? you can't (and won't) swim.

w/c: 1.4k

warnings: none!

a/n: IM BACKKKKKKKKK also i have the worst writer's block so i'm sorry that this is awful

~~~

Summer break of the F1 season was one of the few times where drivers were really able to relax - no responsibilities, no press conferences, no training sessions, pure bliss if you asked Lando.

For many, bringing a 3 year old on a lads trip on your only break of the year sounds like pure agony, but Lando couldn’t be happier. Finally, some quality time with his little girl, without the stress of commitments and world championship battles.

The plan was to rent out a small boat for a week, sailing around islands in the Mediterranean, pure bliss. You were beyond excited to go on holiday with your daddy and all of his friends, everyone and their mother’s were telling you how exciting it was going to be.

You had spent the last few weeks meticulously picking out the outfits that you wanted to take on the boat with you, a white dress (the pink one is ugly), blue skirt (but not the one with the polka dots) and yellow sunglasses to name a few, for a three year old you were very picky about what you wore.

One aspect that seemed to have slipped Lando’s mind was the fact that you were about to spend a week on a boat, in the middle of the sea, and you had no clue how to swim. Naturally, that was going to pose a bit of an issue, he had no idea how you were going to react to the notion of swimming, and he didn’t want you staying on the boat all week in a sulk.

Slightly panicking about the sudden revelation that he had had, t-minus 3 days before you were set to leave, he took you to the local pool.

“You wanna go swimming baby?”

You just scowl at him from the backseat. You didn’t, in fact, want to go swimming. You wanted to go to your ballet class that he was making you miss for this swimming session.

Due to your burning anger at him, you refused to cooperate in the pool. Everytime he let you go to paddle by yourself, you stayed dead still, causing him to have to scoop you back into his arms, sighing.

“Baby, could you please try for Daddy, you’re not gonna be able to swim when we go on the boat if you don’t swim now…” He tried to plead with you, but it was hard to snap you out of a stubborn mood once you decide that you’re angry.

“You hold me.”

“No, my darling… I can’t hold you for the entire week.. Don’t you wanna be able to go swimming by yourself?”

“You hold me.”

The pool trip was short lived.

Lando’s next few days were spent stressing about how this trip was going to go. How could he be so stupid??! Arranging a boat trip and completely disregarding the fact that his 3 year old could not (and clearly would not) swim. Multiple times he tried to subtly get you back to the public pool, but whenever you caught a whiff of having to go back into the water you immediately shut it down.

By the time the day came that you were going to leave, Lando felt helpless. He’d packed armbands and any other floatation devices he could find, but he knew that he can’t rely on them, you - and him - were going to have to face the music one way or another. But, he wanted to enjoy himself for as long as possible, it was his holiday too after all, and put his worries to the back of his mind.

It was no surprise that the Mediterranean was beautiful. The boat turned out to be extremely luxurious, plenty of room for all of the guests, equipped with a kitchen and living area. You were completely beside yourself with joy, running around the boat non-stop and babbling at anyone who would listen about how excited you were, showing them all of your teddies that had made the trip to the Mediterranean.

The first night was the definition of a guys vacation (plus a three year old). Everyone was sharing drinks and some meat dishes, chatting and laughing loudly, completely in their element.

You - as always - were running around wreaking a reign of havoc and terror on anyone who crossed your path.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” You squealed, tugging on Lando’s shirt as you had decided he wasn’t paying enough attention to you as you would’ve liked.

“What’s up, darling?” He replies, picking you up to sit on his lap as he was chatting with a friend.

Not happy with being picked up, you quickly wriggled out of his hold, “Look Daddy! Look, look what I found!”

Before he could react you had already scampered off, running towards the bow of the ship, where the supposed exciting thing was.

“Sorry mate, won’t be a sec…” Lando mumbled to his friend, following after you in some haste.

When he found you you were half overboard, your upper body dangling off the front of the yacht whilst you pointed at some fish that you could see down below. Lando could have sworn that his heart quadrupled in speed.

“Oh my god! Angel!” before you had the chance to show him your find, he had taken you into his arms, walking far away from the edge, “You could’ve fallen!! You can’t lean over the edge like that, it's dangerous! What if you fell in?!”

“But there were fishies Daddy…” you mumble, looking up at him with big, innocent eyes.

“Baby… I don’t care if there were fishies, we don’t lean over the ship, okay? Promise me angel…”

“I promise…” you mumble, slightly guilty, resting your head on his shoulder.

“We gotta teach you how to swim..” he mutters, more to himself than anything, after that scare he wants to be sure that you can hold your own in the water.

The next day is the group’s first full day out on the water, it doesn’t take long after breakfast for people to start flocking into the water, enjoying the nice temperatures of the Mediterranean in the summer.

Dressed in your little swimsuit, you sit on the steps on the boat, your legs dangling off with your feet slightly brisking the water.

“You wanna come in and swim, baby?” Lando asks, keeping a close eye on you, especially after last night.

You shake your head, “I no wanna swim..”

He sighs, but relents, “You don’t have to swim, angel, I can hold you..”

To that, you finally smile at the thought of being in the water, nodding your head eagerly, and outstretching your arms for him to pull you in.

He carefully pulls you into the water with him holding you close as he slowly swims slightly further out.

“You sure you’re not gonna try to swim for me, angel?” he asks softly.

You shake your head, burying your little face into the crook of his neck, “No wanna…”

“There are some fishies over there, you wanna try swim to the fishies…? Daddy will be right here..” The fish seemed to be the reason you were fine with risking your life last night, so he thought it might prompt you into swimming. He was right, he knows you too well to be wrong.

Your head perks up at the mention of fishes. “How far…?”

A breath that Lando didn’t know he had been holding in for a while is finally released, “Just over there, you see them, pretty right?” He points to a little school of fish a few metres away, “You gonna swim to them, baby? Use your arms and kick, okay? ‘M right here…”

He gently lets go of you, keeping his arms right there just in case. Ever the smart child, you seemed to get the hang of it pretty quickly, kicking your legs and flailing your arms in an attempt to get close to the fishes.

“That’s it baby… doing so good!”

Your hair follows behind you in the water as you manage to get over to where the fish are. Lando immediately takes you back into his arms, placing kisses on your forehead.

“See, angel, swimming isn’t that bad, huh? You’re so good at it!” He coos.

You just giggle, wrapping your little arms around his neck, “You hold me…” you mumble sleepily, the events of last night and your little swimming adventure having taken it out of you.

“Okay, my love, I’ll hold you…”

~~~

a/n: tysm for reading!!! requests are always open x

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fluff #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff #dad!f1 #dad!lando norris

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andhumanslovedstories · 4 months ago

Text

There's so many horrible things happening in America right now that it has been interesting to see what individual horrors hurt me personally the most. I grew up going to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Musicals, plays, concerts, that weird bust of JFK, playing around on terrace during intermissions, putting on a velvet dress that you're going to ruin dropping a milk dud in your lap and not noticing until it's fully melted, wearing the pinchy shiny shoes that are the training bras of women's formal footwear, operas I didn't like but did love, jazz I didn't understand but still fascinated me, red carpet, big stairs, the absolute nightmare amount of experiences I had as a new driver as I repeatedly got trapped in the Kennedy Center's fucking private DC island or whatever the hell is going on traffic-wise, free performances on small side stages, getting to see an enormous production on the Center's most enormous stage, all of which was accessed by walking through that a long, tall hallway lined with flags of the world that made you feel like a dignitary attending the most important even in the world.

And now Trump's taken it over. He fired its board. He appointed one of his loyalists to run it. I want to throw up.

Sometimes I miss DC so much. I love the Pacific Northwest and expect I'll live here for the rest of my life, but this isn't my hometown. I grew up the edge of the District. I've lost cumulative years of my life stuck in traffic on the inner loop and outer loop. Because of the Smithsonian, it used to be so baffling to me that anyone ever had to pay to get into a museum. I've used the Washington DC zoo as a shortcut to a different part of the city because it's free to enter. You couldn't count the amount of knockoff Spider-man popsicles that I've eaten sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. My reading tastes were molded by Kramer Books in Dupont Circle. I spent afternoons walking around the National Mall, normally just a big empty field until there's an event--book fair, country music program, international cuisine, whatever--at which point for a day or a weekend or a week it becomes a sea of tents and stages. I went to protests outside the Capital and the White House about the war in Iraq. I froze my toes off watching Obama's 2008 presidential inauguration.

It seemed like everyone's family touched the federal government in some way. Everyone's family had moved here because they were military or state department or a political consultant or worked with an NGO or some other reason that meant you had to be here, in the nation's capital. Plenty of people had connections to the federal government that we more hush-hush. Like kids in class straight up going, "I have no idea what my parents do for a living. They're not allowed to tell me." High schoolers regularly, accidentally drove into the CIA parking lot and got escorted out because the premises were that accessible. My family moved here because my dad is a reporter who ended up covering international trade. (Imagine how much his job sucks right now.) He switched beats one summer to cover the White House instead. He got to fly on Air Force One. He got official Air Force One M&Ms. I was SO disappointment my dad didn't work there for Bush to call on him by nickname.

Every day my family got The Washington Post. I read the comics and the kid's page, then the rest of the Style section, then Metro, then news. I learned to read from it. We wrapped our delicate Christmas ornaments with its pages. We used yesterday's papers to clean our windows because they didn't leave streaks. I took journalism in high school. You can't IMAGINE how much and how frequently we talked about Watergate. When Post changed its motto to "Democracy Dies in Darkness" after Trump's election in 2016 that meant something to me. I knew Bezos owned the paper now, but that was still my paper, and the motto spoke to something I fervently believed: if people just knew what was happening, they wouldn't allow it to happen. If you expose a problem, people will naturally agree that it is a problem and that we should do something to fix it. Flash forward to Trump's third fucking campaign, and the newspaper wouldn't endorse a presidential candidate. Chickenshit cowardice. Then they change the motto. "Riveting Storytelling for All of America." Eat shit. You're nothing now.

Politics in America is just telling everyone how much you hate Washington, DC so that they'll elect you so you can move to DC. Well, guys, the city fucking hates you too. Republicans will never give the District actually meaningful political representation because no one in that city would vote for them. It's not just the policies; it's the contempt. No one in the new administration loves the city they schemed and lied and stooped to take over. It's just iconography to them, and all they care about is taking that iconography for themselves. Trump doesn't give a shit about the summer program for the Kennedy Center. He has never seen a show at the Kennedy Center. When he was president, he never attended the annual awards. He's trying to destroy one of the most significant places of my life and I'm genuinely unsure if he has ever stepped for inside of it.

#b.#i need a us politics tag for people to block #us politics #i saw someone use 'politics!' and i was like oh cool i'll do that for easy blacklisting and archiving my thoughts for myself #but i simply cannot bring myself to express any kind of enthusiasm for the topic even for organizational reasons #maybe i'll do like:#politics...

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checkeredflagggs · 5 months ago

Text

Pole Position

Pairing: logan sargeant x stripper!reader

summary: after a(nother) bad race, logan does as anyone in Vegas does — drinks himself into a couple of bottles, meets the newest stripper in the club, and marries her? …wait what??

a/n: @sinofwriting is an enabler and shouldn’t be talked to at 3am…

a/n2: I support sex work of all kind — if you disagree, don’t come crying to me

a/n3: still working on story of us: chapter 3 but it just keeps getting longer and longer — people keep trying to flirt with y/n. It was just supposed to be a short bridge chapter 😭 but I work better under stress so I WILL have it out by Wednesday

a/n4: no particular year for this piece btw but mostly 2024

sweet_as_cherrie_pie

liked by user, user, user, and 1,124 others

tagged: the_lumberyard

sweet_as_cherrie_pie: training? done 🥳

view all comments

user1: 🥵🥵🥵

↳user2: oh so excited for a new dancer…

user3: 🍆🍆🍆💦💦💦🍑🍑🍑???

↳user4: disgusting behavior

↳user3: this is a stripper’s page?

↳user4: and you think she deserves…you???

user5: Stop this ungodly behavior at once young lady!

↳user6: not to repeat those disgusting comments above — this is a strippers page.

↳user5: it’s a page of filth

↳user6: so how come you’re here?

user7: you’ve got this!

user8: I got to see some of your training and woooweee mama the dedication and physicality of it…

↳user9: I tried it once (looking for a new workout routine) and that was ENOUGH

↳user9: congrats girl!

logansargeant

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63, oscarpiastri, user, and 790,469 others

tagged: williamsracing

logansargeant: I’m sorry guys — not the race we wanted this weekend but we’ll learn and come back stronger next time

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alex_albon: next time for sure 💪🏻!

↳logansargeant: absolutely!

↳user15: keep on dreaming — you suck

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user16: what a fucking waste of a seat

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user17: Williams I beg — drop the dead weight

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jvf1: next time

↳user18: well that’s ominous as shit

oscarpiastri: just gotta keep learning mate

↳logansargeant: we absolutely do!

↳user20: you do! Oscar isn’t the giant loser you are

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user21: never been so glad for a break in the calendar — gotta forget this disaster class drive(r)

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f1_gossip

liked by user, user, and 2,193,924 others

f1_gossip: what a wild night Vegas turned out to be! Pierced together from several drivers’ stories last night, the party started early and lasted for a while — it looks like someone now has a lifelong commitment actually

view all comments

user22: WHAT??? WHO???

↳user23: where’s that detective chick? Or the obsessive Bluesky users? WHO GOT MARRIED

user24: my bet is Max and Kelly — they celebrated his win a little to hard

↳user25: I always thought it would be charles to be the one to get drunk married…

↳user26: …yeah ok I can see the vision

user27: that head of hair? Carlos! Definitely 💯

↳user28: I’m throwing my money in on Lando? He totally gives off Vegas wedding vibes

oscarpiastri: …🧐🧐

↳logansargeant: …😬

user29: I was gonna say Daniel but Oscar and Logan are making me suspicious…

↳user30: yeah…now who do we think?

↳alex_albon: my money would be Lando

↳user31: sounds just like something someone with something to hide would say

↳alex_albon: im cuddling a plastic flamingo and am too drunk to make sense of that sentance

landonorris: maxverstappen1 you are never mixing me a drink again…anyone know where i am?

↳user32: LANDO?? DID YOU GET MARRIED LAST NIGHT??

↳landonorris: MARRIED?? TOWHO??!?

↳charles_leclerc: you got married and didn’t invite me? 🥺

↳maxverstappen1: or me?

↳carlossainz55: mate…

↳maxfewtrell: without your best man?

↳landonorris: im nOT MARRIED???

Private Messages, Boss and Cherrie

Private Messages, Logan and Cherrie

logansargeant

liked by sweet_as_cherrie_pie, alex_albon, oscarpiastri, and 1,344,924 others

tagged: sweet_as_cherrie_pie

logansargeant: I guess what they say is true…what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas. I’m glad though that you said yes (again)

view all comments

sweet_as_cherrie_pie: it’s the blue eyes. They make me stupid

↳user33: I have never agreed with anything more faster in my life oh my god?

user34: you married a stripper

↳logansargeant: I guess I did

↳user34: 🤮🤮🤮

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↳user34: great pick — either a gold digger or a used whore

this comment was deleted

this user was blocked

oscarpiastri: so it WAS you who got married!

↳logansargeant: Apparently 😂

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: yeah I guess those Elvis chapels are actually legally binding? Idk 🤷🏼��♀️

↳user35: I’ve had cherrie for only a minute but if something happened to her, I’d kill everyone then myself

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: extreme but I get it

alex_albon: YOU GOT DRUNK MARRIED IN VEGAS???

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: Watch your tone when talking to my husband.

↳user36: wow that period is the most threatening thing I’ve ever seen

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: it should be.

↳alex_albon: logansargeant help?

↳logansargeant: …sorry Alex but I got your flowers babe liked by sweet_as_cherrie_pie, user…see more

user37: wow I really had it being Lando who got married

↳landonorris: WHY. IM DEFINITELLY NKT THE TYOE TO GET DRUNK MARRIED

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: Is there something wrong with that Mr Lando Norris, 123 Monaco Street Monaco?

↳landonorris: WHY DO YOU KNOW MY ADDRESS logansargeant HELP

↳logansargeant: 😂

↳landonorris: stop laughing at my pain

jvf1: I expect you back at the Grove by Friday Logan

↳logansargeant: Yes Sir

↳user38: uh oh

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: Oh I’d love to meet you.

user39: when she’s (violently) protective 😍😍

↳sweet_as_cherrie_pie: Oh im ride or die for my people liked by logansargeant

y/n_sargeant

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 1,123,221 others

tagged: logansargeant

y/n_sargeant: when he has big blue eyes and looks good on his knees…you say yes (twice)

view all comments

user40: girl I don’t think you can actually say that

↳y/n_sargeant: who’s gonna stop me?

user41: the name change though…

↳logansargeant: oh im not letting her get away

↳y/n_sargeant: locked in for life 🔒 (and Cherrie was just a stage name anyway…)

↳user41: 😍

oscarpiastri: I think I’ll like getting to know you y/n

↳y/n_sargeant: same pastry boy

↳oscarpiastri: 🙄🙄

↳user42: oh I love this friendship already

alex_albon: …you’ll be coming with Logan then?

↳y/n_sargeant: you couldn’t pull me away

↳alex_albon: for how long???

↳y/n_sargeant: Well considering I got fired for getting married? Forever.

↳user39: still loving that (violently) protective bond

landonorris: no??

↳y/n_sargeant: Yes Mr Lando Norris, 123 Woking Street England

↳landonorris: HOW DO YOU ONOW THAT ADDRESS???

↳georgerussll63: Oh I’m going to love getting to know you y/n_sargeant liked by y/n_sargeant

logansargeant

liked by y/n_sargeant, oscarpiastri, and 993,234 others

tagged: y/n_sargeant

logansargeant: must be too fast for my own good — I got married before I started to date her. We’re fixing that now 🩵

view all comments

y/n_sargeant: ♥️♥️♥️ love you hubby

↳user43: I am so so jealous (and so single)

user44: no but dating your wife…

↳logansargeant: always

↳user44: ok just call us sad and single little vroom vroom boy

↳y/n_sargeant: trust me — there is NOTHING little about him

↳logansargeant: babe 😆

user50: ok but what kind of pie is that?

↳logansargeant: cherry! It’s y/n’s favorite

↳y/n_sargeant: actually you’re my favorite

↳user49: still don’t think you can say that… liked by y/n_sargeant, logansargeant

lilymhe: alex_albon take some notes

↳alex_albon: y/n_sargeant how long are you staying again?

↳logansargeant: forever and ever and ever liked by y/n_sargeant

user51: ok but who won the uno game?

↳y/n_sargeant: i did

↳logansargeant: she’s absolutely ruthless

↳y/n_sargeant: 🥹🥰

↳y/n_sargeant: but no I don’t take prisoners — not even my husband

y/n_sargeant

liked by logansargeant, landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 1,234,924 others

tagged: logansargeant

y/n_sargeant: oh yeah he’s all mine 🥵🥵🥵

view all comments

user52: im seeing the vision

user54: yummy 🤤

logansargeant: yeah Williams wants you to go through pr training now

↳y/n_sargeant: I will not but thanks for asking

↳williamsracing: it was really less of an ask and more of a requirement

↳y/n_sargeant: still gonna be a no

↳williamsracing: understandable queen — thanks for your time

↳user55: it was that easy?

oscarpiastri: i'm glad we’re in a different hotels

↳y/n_sargeant: Don’t worry about it. 😁 I’ve got time.

↳oscarpiastri: ominous

↳y/n_sargeant: Yup!

user56: is that…is that Logan pole dancing???

↳logansargeant: well I’ve got a great teacher!

↳y/n_sargeant: 🥵🥵🥵 you keep working that pole baby!!

↳logansargeant: whatever you say liked by y/n_sargeant

williamsracing

liked by y/n_sargeant, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 1,948,138 others

tagged: logansargeant

williamsracing: AND THAT’S P1 FOR LOGAN! IN HIS FIRST EVER F1 PODIUM, HE CINCHED THE TOP STEP HERE IN ABU DHABI

And congratulations to Alex for his p5!

view all comments

y/n_sargeant: HE DID IT!! THATS MY MAN

↳user57: HE’S ON THE TOP STEP?!

↳y/n_sargeant: not just on the top step 🥵🥵

↳user57: we really can’t keep defending you girl

↳y/n_sargeant: im getting so railed tonight i don’t even care liked by user57, user…see more

user58: Williams points?

↳y/n_sargeant: WILLIAMS LOGAN PODIUM

user59: petition to have y/n come to every race ever — she’s clearly Logan’s lucky charm liked by logansargeant, y/n_sargeant

↳y/n_sargeant: absolutely!

↳user60: clearly! Her pole dancing translated to pole positions liked by logansargeant, y/n_sargeant

y/n_sargeant

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, alex_albon, and 2,823,183 others

tagged: logansargeant, alex_albon, williamsracing, jvf1, liakblock

y/n_sargeant: thanks for getting drunk and marrying me in Vegas baby — and congrats to the Williams Racing Team for a good last race!

view all comments

user61: did…did you dump a container of Gatorade on JAMES?

↳y/n_sargeant: gotta give him some of that good ol’ American hospitality right? liked by user61

logansargeant: that was the best impulse decision I’ve ever made!

↳y/n_sargeant: it really really was

↳user62: ok this is calling me single in more languages then I know how to speak

oscarpiastri: congratulations man!

↳logansargeant: you too! Constructors Champs!

↳landonorris: papaya rules!!

↳y/n_sargeant: Did you forget something Mr Lando Norris, Room 344 Abu Dhabi Hotel Abu Dhabi?

↳landonorris: SERIOUSLY HOW ARE YOI DOING THAT!!

↳landonorris: also congrats on p1 Logan!

↳y/n_sargeant: I have my ways

alex_albon: congrats dude! Knew you could do it!

↳y/n_sargeant: yeah he can!!!

↳logansargeant: thanks man! And congratulations to you too!

↳y/n_sargeant: and congrats to you too Alex!

jvf1: My office. Now.

↳y/n_sargeant: yeah we’ll see you next year dude

↳logansargeant: sorry sir. We’re on our way

↳y/n_sargeant: yeah alright I guess…

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby

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no-144444 · 8 months ago

Text

was it casual?-l.norris

Day 28 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: the seriousness of your relationship wasn't exactly clear... leading to unforseen circumstances... (18+)

mdni (18+ smut) (ur responsible for the content you consume, not me)

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

He walked into his empty apartment. Monaco was a town where you either knew people, or you didn’t. He knew people, but people knew him more. Max F was busy, Carlos was in Spain with family, Oscar was over in England to see Lily, Alex was off supporting Lily in a tournament, George was with Carmen in Austria, Max (V) was too busy with streaming and fighting the FIA, and that left him all alone.

His life had been getting quieter since the start of last season. People checked in less, his mental health went downhill, everyone has their eyes on him now. It had been months of lonely interactions, wasted opportunities, and a job that was slowly ripping him apart. He had to win, he had to be the best.

Then there was a knock at the door. The tension in his shoulders dissipated, a smile made its way onto his lips, and he forgot about his troubles.

You were here.

He opened the door with a bright smile, and there you stood with his favourite takeout. The only person who made him feel normal.

“Hey baby,” he smiled, letting you in. You stepped inside, placing the food on the table. “How was your day?”

“Busy, but better now,” you smiled and pressed your lips to his softly. “You?”

His heart warmed slightly. He never thought he’d be one of those guys. One of those guys who loved their girlfriend 7 months in, but here he was, heart eyes and all.

“Busy, but better now,” he replied. You chuckled as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder.

“What’d you do?” You asked.

“Some simming, training, meetings and other boring shit,” He yawned. “Tired now.”

You nodded.

“You?”

“Down in court today, Rich is doing well, I think the judge likes us,” you explained, mindlessly picking the carrots out of his dish and putting them in your own. “Don’t know if we’ll win though.”

“You will,” he answered definitively. “You’re the best solicitor ever.”

“I’m not a full solicitor yet,” you reminded him.

“Still the best,” he shrugged.

“Come on sleepyhead, have some food and we can go to bed,” you chuckled. He sat beside you at the table, and you two chatted about your days, not even bothering to clean up before collapsing into his bed.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You two had met at a bar in Monaco, you were friendly with Pietra due to a few yoga classes you’d done together, and Lando had been obsessed with you since then. You’d gone on a few dates that mostly ended with you in his bed or vice versa, and recently it had turned into more of a relationship. He hadn’t asked you out yet. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You hadn’t been on a proper date in months. It was confusing. You thought it was just casual. You really liked him, but he thought this was just casual, didn’t he? I mean, what would an F1 driver want with a regular law student in Monaco just starting her traineeship? He wasn’t your boyfriend, right?

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You woke up with his arms around you, and quickly shuffled out of his bed. You got dressed, cleaned up after dinner from the night before, and off you went. Saturday, you had a lunch date with a few friends, and some errands to run.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

Lando woke up cold and alone. It wasn’t crazily unusual for him to wake up alone when you’d stay over, but you’d usually tell him that you had an early morning, or something to stop you two from having a lazy morning. He checked the time, 10am. You must’ve left recently. He cursed himself for being such a heavy sleeper, and for sleeping so well when you were with him. He shot you a text about tonight. He knew it was slightly pathetic that he didn’t have anyone else to hang out with other than his busy girlfriend, but he didn’t really care. It was a great chance as well, since his parents were in town and might be able to swing by dinner. He knew it was early on, but he loved you, and he planned on telling you soon.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

A knock on the door, a familiar routine. He should probably give you a key.

“Hey baby,” he smiled.

“Hey Lando,” you smiled. “Sorry I was later than usual, the traffic was crazy and I didn’t want to cancel on you and-”

“So this is the girlfriend?” Adam, Lando’s dad, asked, a bright smile on his face. Your face fell. His parents were sitting right there, staring at you, looking at you, and they thought you were his girlfriend. He must’ve thought someone else was behind the door, maybe he’d cancelled and you didn’t get the text and his actual girlfriend was behind you and you were about to be kicked out and blocked, maybe-

“This is her,” Lando smiled, ushering you in. You shot him a look of confusion. He shot you one back. He took your coat and bag, and led you over to the table with a kiss on the cheek, his parents watching the whole display.

“So Y/n, what do you do?” Cisca asked.

“I’m a solicitor in training,” you explained. “Sorry that I was late, the traffic was insane and my firm is across the-”

“It’s fine,” she smiled. “We only got here 10 minutes ago.”

“Ok, good,” you chuckled nervously.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

And with that, the dinner began. It was a maze of questions, jokes, and slight teasing, but by the end, you’d thought you did quite well. They didn’t seem to completely hate you yet, so that was good. As Lando closed the door on them, you put your head in your hands and groaned.

“I’m sorry I sprung that on you, it’s just… they were in town, a-and they wanted to meet you so badly-”

“It’s fine,” you shook your head. “I just… I didn’t know I was your girlfriend,” you told him honestly.

His eyes darkened, a hint of possessiveness playing behind them. “How did you not think you were my girlfriend?” “Well, for one, you never fucking asked me to be your girlfriend. Two, it doesn’t exactly make sense considering I’m just a law student, and you’re a fucking F1 driver. Three-” he cut you off with a kiss.

He kissed you hard and heavy, pulling you into his arms, his grip bordering on bruising. “Jump,” he whispered against your lips. You obliged, jumping and wrapping your legs around his torso. He brought you to his bedroom, all but throwing you on the bed and rushing to take off his clothes as you took off yours. He got to work, finger swirling through your core as he watched your reactions.

“So good Lan,” you whined, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You fuck anyone else?” he asked, harshly scissoring his fingers into your entrance.

“No-fuck- j-just you. Only you-shit!” you moaned.

He smirked, lowering his face to your pussy. “Good girl,” he quipped, kissing at your clit as you moaned his name. You were his, he was yours. He needed to remind you of that.

You were hot all over, desperate to finally get that release, but he was going too slowly. “Lan, quicker, please,” you whined, more than needy. You tugged at his hair, grinding down on his face as he smirked. It felt fucking amazing, his nose, his tongue, all of it. It was too much and too little all at the same time. You whined in frustration at the loss of contact when he pulled away, leaving you unsatisfied. He flipped you over, ass in the air on his bed and smacked your ass. “Lan-!”

Buried to the hilt in one thrust. Lando was clearly not fucking around tonight. “You’re doing so well baby.” he smirked. “Want you to cum on my cock.”

You nodded, letting him take what he wanted from you.

“My fucking girl, isn’t that right?”

“Yes! Yes!” you moaned.

“Fuck, good fucking girl, y’gonna cum on my cock?”

“Yes! Yes!” you groaned, muffled by the sheets.

“Who’s fucking you right now?” he thrust harder, messily kissing your neck.

“You!” you screamed, getting closer and closer to your high.

“And what am I to you sweetheart?” he gritted out.

“M-my boyfriend!” you finally came around him, walls tightening as you moaned. He came shortly after, groaning as he pulled out of you.

“You alright?” he asked, a bright smile on his face. You nodded softly, too exhausted to speak. “Did so good,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek and left to grab some glasses of water, and a towel to clean you both up with. It wasn’t just casual.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff @5sospenguinqueen @yootvi @linnygirl09 @lanadelray1989 @teamnovalak @gleeblegnarp

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lucasjovin · 1 year ago

Text

Enhancing Corporate Driver Performance: Expert Tips for 2024

Corporate drivers performance is not only in getting to destinations but in doing so safely, efficiently, and in a more professional manner. There is a significant change in the industry of corporate driving in 2024; hence, drivers’ efficiency should also be addressed proactively. Professionals recommend the following tactics for organizations so that they can make informed decisions on ways to enhance the performance of their drivers while they are at work."

Embracing Advanced Technology Solutions

The importance of introducing advanced technology solutions for improving corporate driver performance in today’s technologically savvy environment cannot be overstated. Real-time insights into driving behavior, route optimization, fuel efficiency, and vehicle maintenance can be achieved using telematics systems, GPS tracking, and AI-powered driver behavior analysis tools. Such technologies do not just elevate outcomes but also encourage safe driving habits, leading to decreased operational costs.

Prioritizing continuous training and development

One of the main ways companies can improve their drivers’ work is by providing continuous training and development programs. In addition to having an understanding of basic driving knowledge derives should be ready defending strategies knowledge, guidance on how environmental safeguards could be done using cars and finally how customer care is to be done when one is behind the wheel. Moreover, ongoing coaching sessions and feedback are necessary for managers to understand in which areas drivers need coaching while encouraging accountability and excellence in them.

Cultivating a Positive Work Environment:

Enhancing corporate driver interpretation is largely facilitated by having a positive working environment. The satisfaction and motivation of drivers are enhanced by recognizing and rewarding outstanding performances, having an open communication channel, and prioritizing workload in balancing life and work. Furthermore, it is significant to recognize that sticking to safety regulations and practicing zero-accident driving are reminders for how necessary responsible practice has become as they help spread this culture.

To effectively train people driving as employees for companies based on technology, encouragement, and teaching, experts need to have a holistic corporate driving training strategy.

#class one driver training #driver training industry #corporate driving training

0 notes

rene-spade · 1 year ago

Text

miss louisiana i | c. leclerc, a. saint mleux | chase landry

poly! | fem! reader x obsessive! exes! charles leclerc, alexandra saint mleux (+chase landry and f1 grid)

synopsis. your obsessive exes refuse to accept your new relationship with a man completely different from them. maybe they should move to louisiana? jk!. . . unless?

note. ok so reader is from louisiana and has cajun roots for context. chase landry is from swamp people 😭✌️ I loved that show when I was younger & I rewatched some recently and it reignited my crush on him sorry

WARNING(s); obsessive/possessive behavior, toxic/creepy exes (I make is as fluffy as I can tho trust), ooc Alex and Charles being a rich and out of touch, a spec of classism, stalking oops, (everyone Loves you)

miss.y/n📍belle river, la

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, jacoblandry, carlossainz55, and 1,006,349 others

miss.y/n back where I belong ☀️🌷🐊🐝🐍🌿🐠

view comments

mariene.y/l/n be safe in the water my baby 🤗

miss.y/n yes maman 🤞😊 you know I’m protected

user oop who’s protecting you miss ma’am

user omgggg how did Charles n Alex fumble so baddd 😩😩🙏 I’ve needed y/n’s cajun french baddie ass since DAY ONE 🗣️

charles_leclerc so beautiful mon ange 😍 but that water is dark and might be dangerous. ta maman a raison!

see translation | your mom is right

user stopp didn’t y/n break things off with them???

user2 currently losing it my fav throuple might be back 💪🗣️

carlossainz55 hope you’re doing well mi dulce ❤️

alexandrasaintmleux yeah no this isn’t happening

user carlos sweetie delete this comment while you still have hands <3

user SHE’S BACK IN LOUISIANA RAHH

user2 how did I not know she was from the middle of nowhere 😭 what is pierre part??

user3 how didn’t you know!!! her dad literally used to hunt alligator before he died and her mom remarried and moved back to France . Her dad was cajun

user this might be a reach but y’all think she knows anybody from swamp people? Love that show 🤣🤣

liked by miss.y/n

♤ ♤ ♤

Alex’s leg bounced up and down nervously as her call went to voicemail for the 7th time in a row. She’d been calling your phone nonstop since hearing the news, anxious to know if it was true or not. It was always something that ate at her; her and Charles’ inability to relate to your childhood in Louisiana. They’d grown up among a higher class than you and in foreign countries. You would just giggle and wave off her concerns, insisting that even though they couldn’t understand your upbringing, that at least you could understand theirs.

“No answer.” She muttered, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. It was a habit she’d had as a child, one that you disapproved of and had trained out of her before you left them.

“She left us for a swamp man.” Charles pathetically finished Alex’s thought as they sat in his car, waiting to meet some other drivers and wags at the high-end restaurant Carlos chose.

“Don’t say it like that!” Alexandra turned her body towards the passenger window, “She didn’t leave us— not in that way! I told you she was homesick!”

Your father was a Cajun man who definitely took his culture to heart, doing a lot of hunting and fishing before he passed away suddenly when you were 12. Your mother was from France originally, and she remarried a rich Frenchman who’d ended up funding your modeling career after your success in pageantry. You moved straight to France at age 14 and found yourself in a completely different culture from how you grew up. You’d visited France before during summers with your mother, but it wasn’t home to you like Louisiana. You’d met Alexandra when the two of you were 19, and instantly bonded. Despite only really meeting briefly, it was love at first sight on Alex’s part and she supported you all the way to when you won Miss Universe after starting out Miss Louisiana.

When Charles had come along and had the same feelings that she did for you, it felt perfect, like everything had finally come together.

“With us is her home.” Charles replied, sucking his teeth.

“I can’t even—” Alex didn’t have to finish, the two had the same thought. They can’t even fathom the idea that you were with someone else.

Daniel was practically cackling in joy while Carlos at least tried to hide his amusement by covering his face. It was no secret that most of the f1 grid was praying for you to leave Charles/Alex so they could get a chance— but this wasn’t what they were expecting.

Bickering around the table ensued, only a few seconds before Alex was rolling her eyes with a groan and putting her face in her hands, “He doesn’t have any recent social media so I can’t even stalk him.”

“So we will just go there!”

“And what? Become swamp people?” Daniel was laughing so hard he was tearing up.

“Cha, that’s so ridiculous.” Alex mumbled.

“It is—!” Kika agreed suspiciously fast, “I just mean the split was recent, so maybe me and Pierre should visit her before you guys?” It’d only been a few months, but that had been enough to drive Charles and Alex a bit off the rails.

They’d only ever been apart from you for just over two days in the last year, up until you ghosted them. Well— it wasn’t technically ghosting when you left a note; a very brief letter in your familiar handwriting that told them you needed some space. They didn’t take it as a break up, although they did panic. Their numbers weren’t blocked, so they naturally took that as a good sign. This was probably because you wanted their attention since all their calls and messages were going through. The finality of it didn’t hit until it reached two weeks of no-contact from you and their photos were removed from your Instagram. The public noticed and so did the rest of the grid despite Alex and Charles’ now 3-month-long denial stage.

“le lieu s'appelle Pierre Part, yeah?” Pierre grinned and Charles sneered at him. (the place is called pierre part)

“They might have a point,” Daniel winced with a wide grin, “I think you’ll just look crazy if you show up. At least, one of us would just look like a friend who misses her, ya know?”

“None of you are visiting our girlfriend!” Alex frowned.

“Ex,” Carlos gently corrected into his fist with a cough before straightening up, “She jus’ is homesick maybe so give her some space and she will come back in no time.”

“I knew this would happen.” Alex slumped with her chin in her hand, “cet endroit est sa maison.” (that place is her home)

“You’ve never heard ‘if you love something, let it go’? If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back.” Daniel tried to reassure, but his face was almost a wince.

“We just wanted her close to us is all! We travel so much, we didn’t mean to take her away from her home—”

But Daniel gave them a look, knowing about their behavior with you. As in love with you as they are, Alex and Charles are intense about it. Endearing on one hand for awhile, but then the jealousy got worse and they were pretty delusional about their tendencies. He could understand it honestly— you were lovely. He imagined he’d be in the same state as Alex and Charles if you were his and you left him. Which is why he cut them so much slack, the rest of the table too.

“I don’t understand why she ran away like that!” Charles finished with a huff, running his fingers through his hair. He was starting to sweat. This felt like a cruel joke on your part— a mean way to get their attention.

“His ears are a little big.” Alex whispered, staring into her phone with a pout.

“et cela! regarde nos oreilles!” (and that! look at our ears!)

Pierre lost it at that; Charles pulling at his ears to make a point, “Maybe he’s just a nice guy, man!”

“We are nice!”

“Let me see.” Carlos walked around the table to see Alex’s phone.

She’d googled the name of your alleged new boyfriend— Chase Landry. He had starred on some Southern US reality show ‘Swamp People’; it mainly surrounded cajun alligator hunters in Louisiana. They had known you liked the show, but had never seen it themselves.

“Eh,” Carlos shrugged, “his ears aren’t that big. He is a little old for her though, no? 34?”

“Exactly! He is a pervert! I’m calling her again, actually.”

♤ ♤ ♤

miss.y/n 📍pierre part, la

liked by jacoblandry, carlossainz55, francisca.cgomes, danielricciardo, and 1,014,108 others

miss.y/n me and my dirty swamp man foreva 🤞💛🌷🦆

view comments

user STOPPP SHE SAID THAT’S MY MAN N IMMA STICK BY HIMMMM

user2 stfu 😭✋ the fact that this man most likely has no idea that this is going on

user3 his brother liking her posts and filling him in

miss.y/n jokes on y’all Jacob doesn’t know what’s going on either

bellahadid beautiful lily faery and her dirty swamp bf <3

miss.y/n <3 literally

user BELLA⁉️

arthur_leclerc beautiful view of the water, ma sœur!

see translation | my sister

user THEY SENT Y/NS FAVORITE LECLERC BROTHER IN TO PLAY DAMAGE CONTROL

user2 not “my sister” 😭😭😭 leclercs let her go challenge

user y/n’s harem coming to her defense like the mighty morphin power rangers 😭😂🤣

this is part 1 of perhaps 3. I plan on making part 2 much longer and more writing than social media like this one, just for some balanceee

taglist; @alliwantisadonut @splaterparty0-0 @charizznorizz

Ren

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #dark! f1 #f1 grid x reader #obsessive f1 #charles leclerc x reader #poly f1 #f1 oc #obsessive charles leclerc #ex! charles leclerc #Charles leclerc fic #carlos sainz x reader #alex saint mleux x reader #alexandra saint mleux #f1 reverse harem #swamp people x reader #chase landry x reader

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aaron04jpg · 7 months ago

Text

Elms guide for Logan Sargeant fans

Starting with what is the European Le Mans Series (ELMS):

It’s a European series of endurance races reserved for cars such as "Le Mans Prototypes" and "Le Mans Grand Touring". The ELMS presents three different categories: LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, LMP3 and LMGT3.

CATEGORIES

* There are 4 categories

* All 4 categories run at the same time on track

* The cars that are performing in those classes are all different in terms of weight, size, engine

Lmp2- Race Number Background Color: BLUE (what Logan is driving !!)

* The category below the top LMH class of the FIA World Endurance Championship (WEC) "Le Mans Prototype 2" (LMP2) is a key part of the “Endurance" family

* Each driver line up must have at least 1 silver or bronze driver, two platinum drivers can not be entered in the same line up

* it allows teams and drivers to progress to the highest level gradually.

* 1st and 2nd LMP2 competitors will be invited to the 2024 24 Hours of Le Mans.

Lmp2 pro/am- Race Number Background Color: CYAN

* In 2021, the LMP2 grid included a separate trophy and title for competitors whose cars included a bronze driver in their line-up. This was known as LMP2 Pro/Am.

* In a change for the 2023 season, the LMP2 Pro/Am category will be run as a separate class

* a lineup of 2 or 3 drivers must include at least 1 bronze driver

* The cars will be the same as run in the LMP2 category.

* 1st LMP2 Pro/Am competitor will be invited to 2024 24 Hours of Le Mans.

LMP3- Race Number Background Color: PURPLE

* LMP3 was designed as a training ground for endurance racing, an arena in which drivers, team members, engineers, and mechanics can hone their skills and prepare for the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the FIA World Endurance Championship.

* lineup must include 1 silver and 1 bronze or 2 bronze

* from what I understand, it is a feeder series similar to f2/f3

Lmgt3- Race Number Background Color: ORANGE

* Le Mans Grand Touring Car, is a set of regulations maintained by the ACO and the FIA for Grand Tourer race cars designed for use in the ACO/FIA motor racing series. *LMGT3 cars are based on production road car models that are built and sold at the time of homologation.

* Cars eligible for the LMGT3 class must be built by a partner manufacturer recognized by the ACO/FIA

* a lineup of 2 or 3 drivers must have 1 silver and 1 bronze or 2 bronze and no more than 1 gold or platinum driver

TYRES

* LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, and LMGT3 competitors run with Goodyear tyres. LMP3 competitors run with Michelin tyres.

* LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, and LMP3 competitors have one dry and one wet tyre specifications. There are two dry and one wet tyre specifications for the LMGT3 category.

* Unlike Formula 1, any equipment for warming the tyres or keeping them to temperature is forbidden.

RACE WEEKENDS

WEEKEND SETUP

* Free Practice: two Free Practice sessions of 90 minutes.

* Bronze Test: one session of 30 minutes exclusively for FIA-ranked Bronze drivers.

* Qualifying: one qualifying session of 15 minutes per category, which defines the grid order.

* In LMP2 Pro/Am and LMGT3, only Bronze drivers can qualify for the car, whereas in LMP2 and LMP3, it's up to the competitor.

* Race – which lasts 4 hours.

RACES

* Each driver must drive at least 40 minutes during the race. (One stint)

* The winner is the car that covered the greatest distance in their category.

RACE NEUTRALISATION

* If the race needs to be neutralized or stopped for safety reasons, multiple procedures can be decided by the Race Director:

FULL COURSE YELLOW

* Intended for short neutralisations, mainly for interventions lasting equal to or less than one lap.

* Cars must slow down to 80kph.

* The pit lane entry is closed when there is a Full Course Yellow (FCY)

* No overtaking

VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR

* Intended to secure interventions and used for an approximate duration of two laps before deployment of the Safety Car (SC).

* Cars must slow down to 80kph.

* Access to the pit lane will remain open for the duration of the VSC.

* No overtaking

SAFETY CAR

* Intended for long neutralizations.

* All cars must follow the Safety Car and adapt their speed.

* The pit lane entry is closed for three laps when a Safety Car (SC) is announced.

* Overtaking is permitted under defined circumstances.

RED FLAG

* All the cars must head back to the pitlane or stop on track according to the conditions.

PODIUMS

* Each category has its own podium for the three first competitors.

STANDINGS

* Cars and drivers have their own classification in each category.

* One point is awarded for the pole position in each category.

* Points are awarded to the following scale:

1. 25 point

2. 18 points

3. 15 points

4. 12 points

5. 10 points

6. 8 points

7. 6 points

8. 4 points

9. 2 points

10. 1 point

AUTOMATIC INVITATIONS TO THE 2025 24 HOURS OF LE MANS

Okay, like I said before- the teams in these series get invited to WEC Le Mans.

* LMP2: 1st and 2nd placed competitors in the overall classifications will receive LMP2 invitations.

* LMP2 Pro/Am: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMP2 invitation.

* LMP3: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMP2 invitation.

* LMGT3: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMGT3 invitation

TEAMS/DRIVERS

* 44 cars are to race during the 2025 season of the European Le Mans Series

* Line-ups are composed of two to three drivers per car.

* 14 LMP2s, 7 entries in the LMP2 Pro/Am class, 10 LMP3s and 13 LMGT3s.

* to take part in the European Le Mans Series, you must be a categorized driver (based on the FIA Drivers’ categorization.)

* the categorization can be adjusted following the pace of the driver during the current season and his/ her results in the series he/she is taking part in.

* The drivers can be rated in 4 classes: Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum.  

PLATINUM DRIVERS (just some basics)

* has held a Super Licence (for Formula One)

* has won the Le Mans 24 Hours in a professional category (LMP1 / LMGTE Pro)

* has been a Factory Driver, paid by a car manufacturer, with results to match

* has finished in the top 3 in the general classification of an F3 international series or major international single-seater championship

GOLD DRIVERS

* has finished in the top 3 in the general classification of a secondary international single-seater series

* has won the general classification of a regional or national single-seater series

* has competed in the FIA F2, GP2, GP3, FIA F3 or Super Formula series since 2012 and has finished on the podium on three or more occasions in one calendar season.

* is a driver whose average lap time has been consistently as fast or faster over the majority of the season than the average lap time of Gold drivers competing in the same event of the season

SILVER DRIVER

* driver aged under 30 and not satisfying the criteria of categories Platinum and Gold

* driver who has finished in 1st place in the general classification of regional or major national championships or international series, or has won a major endurance race

* driver who has won a non-professional drivers' series or a regional, national or international single-make lower category series organized by a Manufacturer

* has competed competitively in high-level international karting competitions

BRONZE DRIVER

* Any driver who was over 30 years old when his/her first license was issued, and who has little or no single-seater experience.

* Any driver over 30, previously categorized as Silver, but with no significant results (titles, pole positions or race wins) and whose performance has been shown to be that of a Bronze driver in a monitored series.

* Any driver under 30 years old with a license issued for the first time during the same year as their first categorization and who has not competed in high-level international karting competitions.

WHERE IS LOGAN

now that we have that info dump, let’s find out where Logan fits in

Logan is going to be racing the number 18 (Ls2 SAR18)

He is racing with IDEC Sport Racing LMP2

His teammates (all three will be racing under #18)

Jamie Chadwick - 3x W Series Champion, Formula E test driver, Formula 1 Williams development driver, Indy NXT race winner

Mathys Jaubert - I don’t a lot but he is 19, finished in the top 3 of Porsche championships

Please feel free to correct me or add things in reblogs/replies :) I am very new so I will be learning with everyone 🙌

#please feel free to correct me #world endurance championship #endurance racing #elms series #european le mans series #le mans #IDEC sport racing #logan hunter sargeant #logan sargeant #ls2 #ls18 #sar18 #williams f1 #f1 #formula 1 #jamie chadwick #pls don’t flop #wec

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gloomwitchwrites · 8 months ago

Text

John Price x Female Reader - Bodyguard AU

Content & Warnings: Bodyguard AU, praise kink, breeding, unprotected piv, creampie, secret relationship, possessive behavior, light dom/sub dynamic

Word Count: 1.6k

After being stubborn about leaving an event, your bodyguard, John Price, gives you a steamy reminder of who gives orders.

ao3 // main masterlist // kinktober 2024 masterlist

“I said that I’d take you home.”

“And I want to stay, John," you snap, your grip on the champagne glass tightening. If you're not careful, the stem might snap.

John stares right back, unamused and clearly annoyed by your defiance. He says nothing, and that only irritates you more.

"I don't see the issue."

"You're making it very difficult to do my job."

You roll your eyes. "You can be such an asshole."

John snatches the champagne class right out of your hand and promptly places it on a tray of a passing waiter.

"You will do as you're told," he growls.

"You won't tell me anything," you reply sharply.

John's irritation melts away, becoming a knowing smirk. "Did you already forget last night? Or do you need a reminder?"

"Oh, fuck off, John."

Stubbornness pulses beneath your skin. You don't want to leave, even if it's an order you have to follow. Events like this are fun, and you can indulge a bit before you're hidden away again.

"I think I'll stay," you say with a breathy sigh.

"I think not."

"Excuse me?"

"We're leaving. Now, be a good girl for me and walk."

If you still had your champagne, you'd throw it in his face.

Pushing past John, you purposefully shoulder-check him before leaving the main banquet hall. John calls your name but you ignore him. You're being a brat, but it's the only defense you have.

Not like you could escape John if you wanted to. This man is ex-military. He's trained to take out every possible danger. You are your father's prized possession. Nothing will happen to you. Not with John at your side.

The two of you reach the private parking garage and John waves off the valet attendant, grabbing your upper arm and steering you toward the car.

"Unhand me," you snap, but John ignores you.

Guiding you toward the black SUV you arrived in, John retrieves the key fob and unlocks it, the car's headlights turning on.

“Get in,” he mutters, opening the rear passenger door.

He unceremoniously shoves you into the backseat. You turn to send a snide remark his way but John slams the door in your face.

"Fucking asshole," you mutter.

John hops into the driver seat and turns the key in the ignition, bringing the car to life. He backs out, the two of you leaving the garage and heading toward the hotel in a matter of minutes.

The silence is awful. You know John is irritated and yet a small part of you simmers with smugness. Winding John up is fun. Being a brat and pushing back always makes him hungry for you.

When John rolls up to the hotel entrance, he's out of the car and at your door faster than the valet. He opens the car door and offers his arm. You take it, and John tosses the keys to the valet before ushering you inside.

You know it's best to not push. John is on a mission. In public, he's being the perfect gentleman, but you know that'll change once he gets you to the hotel room.

In the elevator, John politely withdraws his arm only to place his hand low on your back. He stares ahead, and when the doors open for your floor, he guides you forward with that hand, pressing lightly against your spine. Removing your keycard from his suit jacket, John swipes the card. The lock beeps, and then the two of you are inside, the door closing behind him.

Turning toward him, the words on your tongue disappear as his hand wraps around your throat, guiding you onto the bed. He pushes you onto your back, lips claiming yours.

John’s kisses are not sweet. They are rough. Claiming. You open for him, taking each one, the sweltering heat in your belly growing until it bleeds out into your legs.

"I told you to be a good girl," he murmurs against your lips. "To behave for me."

His hand comes down hard on the inside of your thigh. You yelp, and then John yanks you upright and into his lap at the edge of the bed. He adjusts your position, spreading you wide over his thighs.

"You want to show me you can behave, love?" he asks, thumb pressing against the pulse point in your throat.

You nod, and John smirks.

"Then show me," he breathes, lips dangerously close to yours.

Reaching between your bodies, you unclasp the belt and unbutton the front of his pants. The zipper goes, and you slide your hands between fabric and skin, shoving them down enough that his hardness springs free.

“You’re going to sit on my cock, and fuck yourself on it.”

John is not asking. He is telling you. Instructing. You are to behave and obey, to submit to him as you like to do behind closed doors.

Grasping the backs of your thighs, John helps you lift just enough to come down at the perfect angle. He pushes your underwear beneath your dress aside, and then you sink down on him.

You’re immediately impaled, and you both groan loudly. His hand grabs the back of your neck, fingers lightly digging into your skin. He tugs, arching you a bit and holding you in place. An act of dominance.

"Are you my good girl?" he croons.

You nod and his lips brush against your cheekbone softly. "Then do it. Or I'll keep you like this all night."

Planting your hands on John's shoulder, you start to rock your hips, lifting and coming down again. The pace is slow. Casual.

"No, love," he murmurs. "Fuck yourself. Get yourself off on my cock. Want to hear those pretty moans.”

Fingers digging into the fabric of his white dress shirt, you angle forward a bit, engage the correct muscles, lightly bouncing on his cock.

“That’s it, love,” groans John. “Just like that.”

You set a steady rhythm, and John releases his hold, placing his hands on either side on top of the comforter.

Your father has no idea that you're having an affair with your bodyguard. If he did, you'd be whisked away and hidden on some island in the middle of nowhere as punishment without connections to the outside world.

"Look at you, love. Following directions. Being so fucking good for me," he whispers.

Pleasure builds with every rock of your hips, but it isn't enough. You need more.

With one hand grasping the back of John's neck, you reach between your bodies to seek your clit.

"No," chides John, grasping your wrist and bringing your slick fingers to your mouth. "Not until I fill you with my cum.”

“John,” you whimper, needing release, the tip of your tongue removing the wetness off your fingers.

“After, love. Not before,” he repeats. "Show me you're my good girl."

You want your end just as much as you seek John's praise. With each upward tilt of your hips, you lightly engage your pelvic floor, squeezing him.

“Fuck,” he groans, elongated the vowel.

You repeat the movement until John’s eyelids become slightly heavy. His pleasure spurs yours, pushing you toward frantic desperation. With a growl low in his throat, John’s hands go to your thighs, and squeeze—hard.

"You're fucking perfect," he murmurs as he meets you thrust for thrust. "And all mine."

Your control is gone. John takes the lead, bouncing you on him until his fingers dig in harshly, sealing your bodies together. He rolls you onto your back, and then he pounds into you, pinning you to the bed.

John chokes out a groan, his cum filling your pussy as you cling to him. His lips find yours, greeting with a sensual softness that makes your walls tighten around him. He pushes up onto an elbow, and then guides your dress out of the way, revealing where your bodies meet.

"You were so good for me," he murmurs, thumb tracing along where you're stretched. "So good." His thumb curls upward, stroking against your clit.

That one touch sends a rocket of pleasure up your spine. He rubs little circles. Your hips twitch, rocking into his touch. John is still inside you, and you watch as his cum-slicked cock appears and disappears with each soft roll of his hips.

“My good girl. My good fucking girl.”

Another stroke, and then your fingers dig into his lower back as the orgasm grips you. When you start to come down, John sticks his thumb in his mouth, sucking it clean.

"Let's have a look, love." John eases himself from your body. He sits up slowly, both hands resting on your knees, keeping you wide. "Beautiful. Just gorgeous."

He's not only talking about you. You push up to your elbows as John lovingly observes the mess between your legs.

"How about we add some more?" The question doesn't require an answer.

John removes his suit jacket and tosses it aside, reaching for the buttons on his white shirt. With an adept quickness, both are gone, revealing broad shoulders and solid, thick muscle.

"Take off your dress. Get on your hands and knees."

John's hands drop from your knees and you reach for the hidden zipper in the side of the dress. You coax it over your head and toss it aside, rolling onto your stomach before arching your back and propping your ass into the air. Spreading your thighs, you present your pussy to John.

"You're perfect. Every time."

His hands gently caress the curves of your body and verge inward, fingers stroking there before his mouth comes down on your clit. A few swirls of his tongue and you're crying his name, begging for him.

John is inside you in seconds, hands gripping your hips, pounding into you like he's trying to breed you straight through the bed. The slickness of your bodies meeting fills the room, smothering your moans and John's groans.

You never want to leave this room.

You want to stay right here with John forever.

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bcksbarnes · 26 days ago

Text

watch it burn

pairing: target!bucky barnes x assassin!reader

summary: you were given a mission: eliminate your target quickly. what you weren't told? your target is the very elusive, highly trained winter solider. that makes things a little bit harder. now you've found yourself back against the wall with his knife pressed to your throat, but there's a look in both of your eyes, one that says this won't end the way either of you planned.

word count: 6.3K cw: 🔞 suggestive content (mdni), violence (they are both trying to kill each other), weapons (are used and mentioned).

a/n: i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it! credit to @thenameswintergifs for making me this fantastic gif and a special thank you to @elixirfromthestars for beta reading! 🤍

Your mission was very simple: Get in. Kill him. Get out.

And for you, that was a walk in the park — another day on the job.

You had done plenty of these missions before. Undercover on high-profile cases with a gun strapped to the inside of your thigh, with a name and face in your mind.

You didn't like to call yourself an assassin, even if that was technically what you were. Really you liked to think of yourself as a problem solver. Your employer had a problem, and you solved it by terminating your target. Simple as that.

Not everyone has the ability to do what you do. Then again, not everyone was forced into this life either.

One minute you were a child, feet sinking into the Earth with each pounding step, the warmth of the sun beating down on the side of your face. High-pitched screams and endless laughs filled the air as you enjoyed every bit of freedom that you had. Your world was limitless.

At least, it was.

Because your luck had run out. Ripped from your home in the middle of the night, your parents promising you everything would be okay over sounds of sobs and pleas. They didn't know what they were signing you up for. They thought it was for protection, for a better future. How were they supposed to know what you would endure?

You were just a kid, standing in an undisclosed training facility. The harsh lights above illuminating your instructor, an older man with a perpetual scowl on his face, and a scar that ran from his left cheek down to his chin, and who always had a knife twirling between his fingers. His instructions were very clear: take the shot.

One move out of line and —.

There was no use thinking back on it. What was the point in remembering the screams of the others who weren't as lucky as you? Those who didn't get praised for being the best in the class, the ones who hesitated. You never hesitated.

Tonight’s mission was no different from the countless others you’ve been on. Maybe a new location and a different target, but the bare bones were exactly the same. It was a gala dedicated in memory of one of the Avengers, you didn't need to know too many specifics other than who you were after.

He would be there, so you would be too.

"Think you can do it in under an hour?"

A scoff crosses your lips, what an absurd question.

You're sitting in the back of a large, blacked out luxury SUV, dressed like any other civilian who is about to attend this event, only your attire comes with some slight modifications. Your earpiece is well hidden, your gun is neatly tucked in the holster strapped to your thigh, and you can feel the blade of your knife against your side in a hidden pocket.

Everything was where it needed to be.

"Absolutely. How much do you want to bet?" you ask.

Your head tilts up until you catch the eyes of your driver in the rearview mirror. He's an undercover agent and your usual ride to these outings. You needed to rely on someone to safely get you in and out, and this was your guy.

"$500 and you fill up my gas tank for the next one," he responds, his hands turning the steering wheel to join the line of cars that lead up to the venue.

"Deal," you agree, nodding your head once. You were confident in your skills, even a little cocky at times, and the smirk on your face confirmed that. This line of business had no time for anyone who didn't believe in themselves; it needed conviction, someone to pull the trigger. That was you.

Your driver nods his head, locking in the deal before flickering his eyes ahead of him, the brim of his cap lowering as he does.

A crinkling of static in your comms piece catches you off guard, followed by the voice of another agent calling your name.

"Do you copy?"

"I copy," your hand moves to instinctively fix the earpiece.

"Good, we'll be approaching in a minute. Do you remember the man you're looking for?"

"James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky. Tall with a broad build, long dark brown hair, light blue eyes, with a bump on his left ear. Probably hiding against the wall, not keen on people," you reiterate the description verbatim. "Am I missing anything?"

You had seen a picture of your target during the briefing — some CCTV footage they were able to obtain of his right side. Although it was blurry, you were able to distinguish some key features, which was all you needed.

"Maybe a smile." Your eyes roll. What an asshole. "You're on."

The door of the SUV opens as if on cue, and a valet appears ready to help you out of the vehicle. You slyly shut off the microphone to your comms piece before giving him your hand. Bright lights illuminate the exterior of the building as a mass of people begin to enter, chatter hitting your ears as your foot hits the ground.

Showtime.

There are more people in attendance than you had expected; a bigger crowd meant that you'd have a lot more people to filter through. He could be anywhere, and that meant there wasn't a second to waste. Your eyes flutter over the attendees' faces, quickly crossing them off your mental checklist.

No. No. No.

You climb the stairs into the building; the long corridor holds the entrance to the ballroom. With whom this event was in honor of, you had a gut feeling he already would be in there.

Weaving through a sea of bodies, your pace has to be exact, not too quick because anyone who is paying close enough attention will flag you down, but you also can't be too slow, like you're lingering.

It has to be the perfect balance.

You find your way inside the ballroom, and the first thought that pops into your head is how spacious it is. Marble columns line each wall, more for decor than actual structural integrity, while hints of off-whites and golds paint each surface. The room is illuminated by six grand chandeliers, each emitting a soft golden light with teardrops of crystals cascading around them. All pulled together with the glass vaulted ceiling; the moon and stars peaking through, a reminder of the night sky above.

Beautiful, breathtaking actually, but you've seen many rooms like this before. Each one of them filled with people who thought they were way more important than they actually were. None of them realizing how disposable they were.

A waiter holding a tray of champagne glasses nears your left side. You don't spare a passing glance as you grab one, continuing to make your prowl in the ballroom. It was one of your main rules of blending in: always have a prop.

Soft music plays, a pianist in the far corner of the room playing Clair de Lune as guests mingle. Your eyes shift as you analyze the scene in front of you. Deep inside, you know he's in here, and your gut is never wrong.

There’s a woman on the opposite side of the room, whispering angrily in, what you assume is, her husband’s ear. Not the man you’re looking for. Your gaze then travels to a bartender a few feet away from you, sweat already on his brow as he focuses on appeasing the long line at the bar. Not your target either.

Then, it hits you quickly in the corner of your eye. You spot something that feels so far off from what you were looking for that you knew it had to belong to the man you were hunting down, a missed detail.

What caught your attention was very simple: a small gleam. That's all it was.

Metal caught in the light, which reflected itself into your vision for a split second. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass, your stomach turning in knots when it hits you exactly who it is. You hoped you were wrong, but you knew you wouldn’t be.

When you turn to face the direction of the reflection, you're instantly greeted with the face of a man you had seen before. Twice, actually.

Once, the day before, in a blurry photo on your briefing sheet.

And once, six years earlier. In Belarus.

You were on one mission, he was on another. Two highly trained assassins at a benefit where there were black market auctions taking place, both there for different targets.

There were no words exchanged, there didn't need to be. You were both there for work. You happened to cross the room at the exact same time, your targets on the opposite ends of where you were standing. All it was, was a fleeting moment of eye contact as you passed each other. The world had stopped for a split second.

You never forgot that metal arm. It was different then, silver with a red star signaling to everyone who he was, what it stood for. He didn't try to hide it, he made his presence known. Now it was black, gold flecks filled in the cracks even near his hands — which were the only part exposed under his suit jacket and what had caught in the light; no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Now, he was a man begging to blend in.

There he was. Standing on the opposite side of the room.

Your target.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

Shit you think to yourself. Any plan of action that you formed in your head was quickly trashed. For decades, this man was the most dangerous, elusive assassin known in the field – probably still is. And here you were with a hit on his head.

You wanted to turn your mic back on and ask what the hell was wrong with your team for putting you in here with no proper warning. They had to have known. Either they were testing to see if you could actually do it, or this was a suicide mission. The latter seemed to be the answer you were gravitating towards.

You'd have to get him alone, and figure out a way to disarm him. Equal out the playing field. Most of your victims were usually packing in some capacity, but most of your victims didn't have a weapon of mass destruction for an arm.

Chugging down your drink and placing it on a random table, you square off your shoulders. Holding your chin up high, you begin to walk forward. You don't stop or falter, only reaching your arm out to grab another glass of champagne when you pass another waiter on your route.

You had to do this. There was no turning back now.

You stop yourself a few feet from where Bucky is standing, his body angled away from yours, swept up in a quiet conversation with a group. He's avoiding eye contact with them and is gripping his whiskey glass like his life depends on it. These people were strangers, and he was hating every second of it.

Your eyes drift ahead of you, needing to appear interested in anything but your target, so you examine the poster on the wall. It's an image of a man with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a jawline that made you believe he was serious. About what? You're not sure, he just seemed convincing. In his hand was a shield, and his body donned a navy blue suit with a white star in the middle.

Your guess? This was the honoree of the gala. Which would be confirmed with the bolded words on the poster that read:

IN TRIBUTE TO: STEVE ROGERSTHE FIRST AVENGER AND AMERICA'S MIGHTIEST HERO

Ah, yes. That's right, The Avengers. Not really your cup of tea. It wasn't that you weren't grateful for the whole saving the world thing, but in your work, there wasn't a line between friend and foe. You were hired. There was a target. End of story.

The whole moral compass thing made your job a bit harder.

You tune back into the conversation Bucky's having. It's hard to make out exactly what they're talking about, but you try your best. There's a few people speaking at once, and it takes you a second to comb through the voices to find his.

He's soft spoken, you're not sure why, but this surprises you. This is a man who is a shadow in the night; his very existence was built on silence, but for such a large stature, you expected a booming voice. A man ready to command an army.

"Thanks," he says. "Yeah, Steve would have loved this."

You can see in your peripheral vision that he's lost all interest in this conversation. The hand that's not holding his glass is tugging on his tie to loosen it, as if it were getting tighter by the moment and would soon choke him. His eyes circle the room, looking for an out.

This is the best time to catch his attention, lure him away from the group, and get your chance with him.Turning your body in his direction, you take a slight step forward to be in his direct line of sight. You catch his eye instantly — like you did all those years ago. Except instead of a fleeting moment with two strangers on their own missions stepping past each other, your gazes stay locked.

Something flashes across his features. Recognition? You hoped not. This wasn't the time for tricky caveats. A few blinks later, and it's gone, but his brows are still threaded together as if he's trying to place you. Any remaining attention he had on the group in front of him had faded completely.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky nods as the woman next to him speaks. He's clearly not listening because as she starts her next sentence, he cuts her off. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" She doesn't have time to respond. He exits, and heads straight for you.

Your eyes shift back to the poster in front of you, holding the champagne flute lazily in your hands. As if you were someone who was much more interested in Steve Rogers than your target, who was making your job easy and finding his way to you (which had to be a first).

Neither of you speaks as he takes his place next to you. The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, amber and bergamot, wrapped in soft notes of vanilla. You can feel the warmth radiating from how close he's standing, but neither of you brushes against the other — keeping what little space you had left.

"Did you know Steve?" His question breaks the ice, both of your gazes locked ahead.

"I can't say I had the pleasure," you respond.

Bucky tucks his free hand in his pocket while the hand holding his whiskey glass shakes the ice around. He looks over his shoulder towards the group he had split from, looking back when he thinks they won't hear him.

"He would have hated this," he admits.

A chuckle passes your lips — his statement is a direct contrast to what you had overheard. Your heart races when you realize that you've slightly slipped up, because Bucky isn't supposed to know that you heard his conversation. Your head turns to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, he's already looking at you, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth, as if he were waiting to catch your gaze.

He knows, you think to yourself. You have to play it cool.

"How come?"

"Steve didn't like making a big show of himself, even if others thought he did. He did everything because he wanted to, not because he wanted to be praised for it."

"Sounds like a smart man," you respond back. "Doing it for the good of the world."

"He was a good man," Bucky nods. "The best."

"Sounds like I missed out on meeting someone quite spectacular."

"You did. He would have hated me saying that too."

"For such a good guy, you're making it seem like he hated a lot of things."

Bucky lets out a dry laugh at the comment. His eyes shift over to the poster again as if he's studying Steve's face, but he's quick to look back over at you.

"No, he was surprisingly easy going. I think it made him uncomfortable to know what others thought of him."

You hum in response. You knew the feeling all too well, especially in your line of work. There was a reason you didn't keep friends or date; getting too close meant telling the truth. Telling the truth meant dealing with the judgment. It was easier to pretend that you were fine being alone than feel the crushing weight of disappointing someone you loved.

"I think we're all plagued by that,” you mutter.

Bucky nods. You don't want to think that he understands. That he was also plagued by the world. You had a job, and Bucky was your target, whether he knew it or not. You couldn't begin to humanize him.

"I didn't get your name."

His voice snaps you back into reality, and you realize you must have been staring into his eyes. A small blush forms on your cheeks, shaking your head to bring yourself back to reality. Answering his question, you tell him your name, Bucky repeats it back to himself as if he's saving it for later.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Bucky Barnes, one of Steve's friends."

"The pleasure's all mine, Bucky."

A smirk crosses his lips again, his eyes twinkling slightly in the light as his head tilts. He's trying to get a read on you, you know it. He may be trying to come across as this innocent man who attends galas in honor of his fallen friend, but you knew the truth. You remembered the stories of the Winter Soldier; you saw him with your own eyes.

"Do you normally come to these events in honor of men you don't know?" he asks.

"Only if it entails meeting someone as charming as yourself."

Bucky's eyebrows raise at your words.

"It's funny you said that," he muses. "I have this nagging feeling that I know you from somewhere. Have we met before?"

There was that look again, like he remembered you, which was impossible. He had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of people over his time as the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe in a dream. I think I would have remembered meeting you before,” you tease.

"What a shame."

Bucky takes a step closer to you, his eyes move across your face, and down your neck. It's a shame you have to kill him, he is very attractive. The way his hair slightly falls over his eyes, and the hard angle of his jawline makes him feel all too real.

He would make a good lover, a great one even.

Too bad for Bucky, the art of seduction is only a pawn for you in this game.

"I hope you know I don't get myself entangled with strangers," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. If he wanted to look at you like he wanted to ravish you, then you'd happily play along.

"Really?" Bucky questions. His hand moves until it's near your cheek, his fingers delicately tucking a lock of hair out of your face and behind your ear, gently grazing your cheek. "I was hoping by the end of the night we wouldn't be strangers anymore."

"Is that so?"

"Mm."

Your eyebrows raise as you bring your champagne glass up to your lips once more and take a long sip. Bucky copies your movement with his own whiskey glass.

"So, Bucky. Would you mind showing me around?" you ask once you've finished.

"It'd be my honor."

Straightening his shoulders, Bucky takes a step forward, vaguely motioning with his hand for you to follow. With the mental note of where your weapons are, you happily oblige. One step closer to the end of this mission.

"Where are you from?" Bucky asks. He's led you out of the ballroom and into the long hallway. If the walls could talk, you were sure the stories they had could fill many pages.

"Outside the city," you keep it vague. "Nowadays, it feels like I'm all over the place. You?"

"I get that," he agrees, then his nods at your question. "I'm from Brooklyn, not too sure I can call it home anymore."

“How come?”

Bucky’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip as the two of you round the corner to a more secluded part of the hallway. The pianist is still playing in the distance, and the music is now mingled with the sound of muted chatter. You're safely tucked away from prying eyes.

He thinks carefully of his answer as he stops in front of a doorway, head turning to look up at the ceiling. There's something in his posture that tells you he's not exactly sure why he's telling you this information, like he's questioning himself.

"Can you still call a place a home if you've never been back?"

Truer words had never been spoken, and unfortunately, you knew that pain all too well.

"I think it can be. Even if it’s too painful to think about."

There's a palpable silence, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. You've forgotten about your team that's waiting for you, or that you can hear static in your comms piece. For the first time in your career, you've forgotten about the mission.

Why?

Because in the dim light of the hallway, Bucky looks beautiful. Tragically beautiful. Moments away from his end, his demise at your own hands, yet all you can focus on are his lips. How plush they look, you wonder how they'd feel against his skin. His eyes. How bright and full of life they are.

He may be your target, but right now he’s the object of your desires.

Fuck.

"You're interesting," Bucky breaks the silence. "You're a total stranger, yet I feel like you can read my mind. Like you know exactly what I'm thinking."

"Isn't that how it always works? The people who don't know us tend to see us for who we really are?"

"Maybe you're right," he muses, pursing his lips. "And who really are you?"

You raise your eyebrow. Even with the space between you and Bucky, you feel like he's backed you into a corner somehow. He knows, you think again to yourself. That nagging voice.

It doesn’t stop you from crossing the hallway until you’re standing an inch away from him. Bucky’s back resting on the door behind him. You can see in the corner of your eye as his hand snakes down to grip the doorknob, his knuckles white from how hard he's gripping it.

The two of you are almost chest to chest. His heart is beating calmly and steadily compared to yours, which might as well have been a ticking time bomb. There's something in the way you two look at each other that's hard to put into words. And now that you've seen him this close, you're not sure you want to see him from any other distance.

"Who do you think I am, Barnes?" Your voice is low, sultry even, as your hand raises to rest on his shoulder. Your finger traces down the side of his neck, eventually playing with the collar of his shirt. He swallows any doubt that he has, his eyes darkening as he watches you.

"Someone I'm not supposed to know," Bucky mutters. His strong hand finds its way to your side, slowly gliding down until he stops right at your thigh, inches from where your holster rests. He just misses touching it.

You're on fire. Every single piece of you.

"Someone who shouldn't intrigue me." He draws circles into the skin of your thigh, a touch you suddenly can’t get enough of. Bucky leans in close, his lips next to your ear — you let out a shaky breath. "Yet, I can't help but want to know who you are, and why I can't seem to want to stay away from you."

Your eyes are closed, the hand that was resting on his shoulder has made its way behind Bucky's head, entangling your fingers with the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Buck."

You're not sure why the nickname whispers out of you so instinctively, but he lets out a soft whine in response. The hand that's holding your leg pulls you in tighter, closer.

"Say that again."

This was never supposed to happen.

"Buck."

"Fuck me," he whispers into your skin.

"Gladly."

It takes no time for his lips to find yours, a heated kiss that nearly sends you over the edge. You're both going at it like you’re starved, and you’ve never tasted anything so incredible before. Hands grabbing wherever they can, tongues brushing against one another. It's a mess. It's hot. It's insatiable.

The sound of the door opening perks your ears up, but you make no attempts to detach yourself from Bucky. He's holding your face now as he backs you into the room, using his foot to close the door once the two of you are inside.

The room is dark, the only light comes from the window on the adjacent wall. You're in some sort of storage room, most of the furniture is covered in a white sheet, and some boxes stack up in the corner.

You don’t care, though. Your attention is elsewhere, not memorizing the layout of the room, not taking in the status of everything like you usually did on these missions. No, right now you’re focused on Bucky and primarily on the feel of his tongue against yours as he guides you through the room.

His hands fall from your face as he sheds his suit jacket, you kick off your shoes at the same time, adding some more inches to your height difference. Bucky cranes his neck down to keep his lips attached to yours. He wouldn’t dream of pulling away.

"Get this thing off of me," he mutters roughly, his hand slipping to where his tie is. One tug and it comes undone. Impressive.

You could feel it in your core how wrong this was, but you didn't want it to end. You couldn't think about the gun strapped to your thigh, the one he almost found, and the bullet you'd have to put through his head.

"I think," Bucky speaks again, his words muffled in between kisses. "Maybe I do have you figured out."

"Yeah?" you ask. "So quickly?"

"Mm," he hums in agreement. "I think so."

"Tell me."

Bucky gives your lips one last soft kiss before he stands, towering over you. His lips are puffy and red, and his eyes are kind, full of wonder; you're not sure how they're the same ones that belong to the Winter Soldier.

To be fair, you're not even sure how you're the same person who came in here to kill him. That’s besides the point.

"I think you're smart," he says, his hand moving to wipe a piece of hair out of your face. "Smarter than anyone else in that room tonight. Observant, too. Like you knew exactly what everyone was doing at all times. I like that."

"Yeah? Smart and observant?"

"Very much."

You watch him through your lashes, you can see that boyish grin on his face.

"You want to know what else I think you are?"

"Tell me."

Bucky leans down until he's eye level with you, his hands on your shoulders, fingers digging deeply into your skin. He wants to keep you there, close to him. He wants you to hear every word he's about to say.

"I think you're a fucking traitor."

He knew.

A flip switches in your brain, but before you can brace for impact, Bucky pushes you. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud, a groan leaving your lips as the air is knocked out of your lungs momentarily. Your hand trying to find your gun. Your brain is frazzled from the kiss, and suddenly you don’t remember how to do anything. Fuck, fuck, fuck you think to yourself as you try to find it.

"Do you think I don't know what's going on here?" Bucky's voice hits your ears as his metal hand snakes its way up to grab your hair, pulling your head back tautly. You groan again as you see the anger flash in his eyes, the tips of your fingers grazing the handle. "Who sent you?"

"Like I'd tell you."

He scoffs, you can feel him reach for something at his side, but your mind is too focused on trying to grab your weapon. You don't register the sound of the switchblade opening, the little snap that gives itself away every time. You do feel it pressed against your neck, the razor-thin edge brushing your skin, ready to cut you open and leave you for dead.

"You know I'd hate to do this," he grits through his teeth. "I was really enjoying getting to know you."

"Come on, Barnes. Why does our fun have to end?"

Bucky lets out a dry chuckle before biting down on his lip, watching you with an intensity and anger that you're sure he only saves for his worst enemies.

"Who said I'm not having fun?"

"Yeah? Is this your idea of foreplay?" you ask, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip as you try to stay concentrated on reaching for the gun. Your fingers brush against the handle. Close, almost got it. "Because I'm incredibly turned on, if so."

"Considering you were going to fuck me either way, I'm not surprised, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth. His hand pulls your hair even tighter, causing you to shrink down in pain. "You think I don't remember who you are? You think I didn't recognize those eyes? Give me a fucking break."

"How long?"

"Since the second I saw you."

"And you still played along."

"I figured if you were going to actually kill me, you'd put a little more effort into it," he nudges the blade against your skin, not deep enough to slice you open, just enough to give you a little warning. One drop of blood.

"Insulting my skills now, Barnes?"

"Considering I'm the one holding a knife to your throat, I'd say I'm a step ahead. Wouldn't you agree?"

You don't respond – instead, a wicked grin now spreads across your features. Bucky's snarling at you, showing his teeth like a rabid dog, that it takes him a moment to notice that you’ve snaked your hand up and the barrel of your gun was now pressed against his temple.

"Not really."

Even as your thumb toys with the hammer, ready to cock it at any second, there's something holding you back — in the same way it's holding Bucky back. You feel the knife press further into your neck. It’d just take one swipe.

"Do it," you egg him on. "Kill me."

"Aren't you the one who's supposed to kill me?" he barks back, his eyes feverishly searching yours. "I left that life a long time ago, sweetheart." That's the second time he's called you that, and if you were in a different setting, it would be endearing. "Maybe you should think about doing the same."

"Trying to make me see the light, Barnes? Tell me how it's so much better to be free."

"Free? You think you get freedom from this life?" he scoffs. "You're sorely mistaken. But, it's better to be a fucked up mess than a contracted killer."

"Bad news for you," you cock back the hammer on the gun. "I'm already both of those."

"Do it," Bucky turns the tables on you, egging you on. His jaw is clenched, waiting for the pop. "You've had plenty of chances. Do it."

You grit your teeth, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face. Bucky's forehead is pressed against yours, you're both breathing heavily, your chests rapidly rising and falling. You've done this hundreds of times before, you've never missed a shot, especially one so close to you.

For the first time in your career, you hesitate.

Your hand is trembling, the gun shaking with it as your brain works in overtime telling you to just fucking do it, but you can't bring yourself to. No matter how cocked the gun is, or the fact that your finger is right on the trigger — you can't do it.

Bucky notices the moment of hesitation and uses it to his advantage. His arm comes up to whack yours, sending the gun flying in the air, hearing it hit the floor and slide once it hits the ground.

You have enough awareness to get out of his grip while Bucky's arm isn't pressed as tightly against you. Your leg comes up to kick the side of his face at a perfect angle, the two of you beginning your fight.

If you weren't trying to kill each other, it would look more like a beautifully crafted ballet. Both of you moving in sync to dodge and hit, the sound of punches landing rippling in the empty room. At some point, you find your own knife that was tucked away to level the playing field.

Bucky's managed to cut your cheek, and at some point, you bust his lip, pieces of clothes are ripped, and there's definitely blood dripping on the floor. Whose? Neither of you are entirely sure anymore.

"Can't say this isn't extremely hot," you tease as you dodge one of his hits, somersaulting out of the way.

"Do you always trying to fuck the guys you're there to kill?"

"Only the ones that make me work for it."

The two of you have managed to create some distance between each other, both twirling the knives in your hand as you side step to circle one another — waiting for the other to attack.

"Who sent you?" he repeats his earlier question

"Someone with a grudge against the Winter Soldier."

Bucky winces slightly at the name, at the mere reminder of who he once was.

"I've made my amends."

"You can keep telling yourself that," you snap. "And the world will keep turning, and there will still be a hit on your head."

"Yeah? And what about you, huh? You think this all goes away. You think one day you'll decide to stop, and it'll be enough. If I'm a wanted man, what does that make you?"

Your blood boils in your veins because you know he's not entirely wrong. This might be your life, but this isn't your forever. You'd either give it up completely or die in the field. You don't want to hear it though. This is the only life you've known.

"You're my mission, Barnes."

Bucky's eyes darken, your words striking a chord. He doesn't hesitate to cross the room, your feet planted firmly in the ground as he approaches you once more — towering over you. Your eyes travel over his face and down his neck, you can see where bruises are starting to form.

His eyes stay locked on you as he does something unexpected, he throws the knife in his hand onto the floor, now in a pile next to your gun that had been knocked out. Besides his arm, he was weaponless, a sign he wasn't fighting again.

Suddenly, your stomach was in knots, because it didn't matter if you had the upper hand now. It didn't matter if you were still clutching your knife, it didn't matter that he was giving himself up to you — because you couldn't do it.

You couldn't kill Bucky Barnes.

Bucky notices the shift in your demeanor, in the way your face drops and your hard edges soften. He's on you in a second, his hands moving to grab your face as he kisses you again.

This was supposed to be simple. A name on a briefing sheet. A single shot between the eyes. Now it was a mess, a tug of the heart, and a slip of your mask.

You hear the clank of your knife as it hits the floor, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kiss him back.

It's not as rushed as before. Bucky takes his time with you. His hands wander down to expose your shoulders, finally detaching his lips from yours so he can kiss your skin and hear those soft moans that follow.

Your head is spinning when Bucky picks you up, as if you were the weight of a feather. He carries you over to the desk, a white linen sheet draped over it to protect the dark wood. There's nothing to say as he lays you down on top of it, his hands working to get your clothes off as quickly as possible.

Your fingers tremble as you work to unbutton his shirt, the hands of a trained assassin now unsteady from just the touch of this man. Unbelievable.

"You're going to be the death of me," Bucky husks out, trailing his lips over your skin. He finds the spot where his knife was pressed against your neck. His lips ghost over it, sending a shiver down your spine, but he soon presses a soft, meaningful kiss there instead.

"That was the plan."

Bucky laughs as his hands find your thighs, teasingly snapping the band of your holster against your skin. You laugh at the absurdity of it. He rests his chin on your chest and looks up at you. Even bloodied and bruised, you're somehow still a vision.

"Enough talking, sweetheart."

He pulls himself back up to your face, capturing your lips in another kiss. If he's going to hear another sound out of your mouth, it better be the sounds of you moaning his name. Because in your failed attempt to kill Bucky Barnes, you've given him a new reason to live.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #james barnes angst #mine #one shot #i'm literally so nervous to post this .... enjoy #100 #200

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