#excel left formula

[cheriladycl01]

Hi Friends! - Daniel Ricciardo x CastMember! Reader

Plot: Daniel, Lando, Max and Oscar decide to take a trip to Disney World

You'd worked at disney pretty much since you left school. It was the only way for you to afford your fees in University and was the most felixible work in Orlando.

You worked in the Battu area currently but you'd originally worked in the British Pavilion in Epcot as a Cultural Exchange, but once life seemed to become a little more steady in Orlando you moved to Hollywood Studios but just in the Star Wars section, a true passion of yours.

You got to dress like a rebel everyday and walk round with Chewy, Rey and the other face characters and got to make guests experiences much more fun than they were. A lot of your interactions were the same, mostly with younger guests who asked you questions about the world and where you came from which you had a line of easy answers, but today had been a very imprompt heavy day.

First, because of an accident near the First Order area, Kylo Ren and two storm troopers were forced to walk through your designated area, meaning you and Rey had to act like you were hiding from him. Many of the guests around you got involved talking to the troopers to distract them while you and Rey managed to escape.

Your lunch break consided of a location special, a Ronto Wrap and Tattooine Sunset which you didn't have everyday but it was a nice treat everynow and then.

"Hey Y/N!" Your manager smiles at you and you grin, wiping the sauce from around your mouth before gesturing her to take a seat opposite you.

"How are you Linda?" you ask kindly taking a sip of your drink waiting for her response.

"Mmmm, todays a good day, and i hear it is for you to. I came to let you know guests are speaking really highly about you today and are coming forward with a lor of compliments and so we wanted you to help with a VIP Party coming in later on today" she explains and you take a look at her with wide eyes.

"Wait who is it?" you ask, shaking your head wondering why this had been sprung on you so last minute.

"You'll know them when you see them sweetheart! Usual meeting place and the guide will meet you there but you've just got to be your usual Batuuian self and they'll love it. Take them on the rides, have interactions and all that!!" she grins before running of, leaving you and the sauce currently spilling out of your wrap and onto the plate.

As directed you waited for them at the entrance to appear, greating guests as they came in welcoming them to Batuu. That's when you saw a group, four guys, two women, a child and two of your colleagues.

You knew who they were straight away, Formula One Drivers... one of them a current world champion in his difficult sport.

"Bright Suns, Travellers!" you greet in your typical Battuian way.

"Hello" Max smiles pushing the young girl foreward.

"Oh woah, a young padawan! Pleasure to meet you!" you stick your hand out and she grins, avoiding the hand and pulling you into a hug. You grin, hugging her back crouching down to her height.

She lets go and you stand back up smiling.

"Welcome to Batuu, have we been before?" you ask around the group, all shaking their head.

"Excellent first time travellers are always exciting to show around the spire. But ..." you pause looking around to 'see if the coast was clear'. "There has been some activity in Batuu recently that is dangerous so, are you all ready for an adventure?" you ask and they all nod.

"Mmmmm what side are you aligned with?" you ask the general group, only for Lando to scoff.

"This one travelled to the dark side long ago... and the little one, shes easily persuaded by his antics. Me on the otherhand im good as gold" Lando jokes making you gasp taking a dramatic step back from Max and Penelope.

"NOOOOOOOO!" the little girl cries jumping forward.

"I'm good i promise! Were here to help, right mummy?" she asks and the lady nods a smile on his face.

"And you?" you ask looking at the older man, long nose and lots of curls and facial hair.

"Mmmm, im as sweet as a peach!" Daniel grins and you nod.

"Well, now that i know your alignment is with the resistance, i require your help. Come with me, Rey awaits!" you exclaim, making them follow you over to the first ride of the day rise off the resistance.

Everytime the cast members with them described something about the location you'd chip in with a personal story of your time on Battuu.

You get through the rock caves through the lightening lane. You show them the hologram of Rey before you help them 'escape' onto the pod. The other guests around would be excited seeing as a cast member was here to make this experience different.

As the pod gets pulled to the First Order ship you start panicking and giving everyone intructions.

"You, youngling! You're on the front lines when those doors open okay?" you point out the random kid in front of the door before turning around to the person closest to the pilot.

"And you, watch that data, track it!" you tell them and they nod officially.

"And the handsome man, over there in the back" you point to Daniel who rolls his eyes and laughs.

"You're my muscle okay?" you tell him and he nods coming to stand next to you.

"Are we all ready, we act like we're hostages but we will get help i promise! Poe and Finn will come for us!" you nod and they all agree with a yes maam.

The doors open and one of your frist order colleagues opens the door, trying to conceal the shock on his face.

"Y/N ... Fancy seeing you here upon the first order ship ... again ..." he monotones making you grin stepping out the ride first.

"Ahhh ya missed me right Charlie, paperwork for these guys is dragging. We should get a drink on Canto Bight some time talk through our ...differences" you grin and he shakes his head keepin ga stern face on.

"Get in line! You rebel scum!" he says.

"Going the same place as the last time yeah? Okay guys follow me!" you say having everyone follow you. You pull up infront of the stationary stormtroopers that are there just for show.

"Get a load of these guys, stiff as bricks" you joke shaking your head before walking off. Penelope grabs your hand and you stop to look down at her.

"Are you scared?" you ask her and she nods. You nod back and keep her close to you as you all que. You see many of the workers, who interact with you and the group much to Lando and Daniel's amusement.

You make your way into the containment unit and await to be saved. Your colleagues great you and you get into the seat next to Daniel in the back row to give the others a better experience at the front. The ride continues as you escape the first order and land back on Batuu.

"Argh boy am i thankfuk that we made it back here all okay!" you say with a little jig as you bring them out.

"So what do you guys do for a living in your own world?" you ask wondering what they'll say.

"We all race against each other in really fast transports" Max explains cocking his head to the side wondering if he'd used the right wording.

"Ohhhh! That's so interesting, we have something similar here called pod racing! I bet you guys would be grand at that!" you smile.

"Hmmm whose hungry i feel like our adventuring so far means we need to feed ourselves" you ask and they all nod happy to get out of the Floridian Summer Sun.

You guys get to the Falcon and you ask if they want to go for a ride to show their skills off.

"You mean we can drive it?" Daniel asks, playing along.

"Well fly it. I think Hanzo asked for my help earlier ... lets go!" you take them forward. Obviously once they got there all four drivers wanted to be pilot and were split into two groups.

Daniel and Max on one team, Lando and Oscar on the other. Lily and Penelope begged to join the McLaren duo. Kelly and you were pushed in with Max and Daniel and the rest was put on autopilot.

"I'm going to show you how to really drive space girl" Daniel grins making you roll your eyes and get ready to press the info for the engineer seats.

"Max pull up!" Daniel cries.

"I am, you need to go left!" he cries flicking his arm up at the screen.

"Please Travellers, keep clear heads" you say trying your hardest to stay in character.

Once your came up, you took the boys and Lily to Oga's cantina, while Kelly took P off to get her some merch that she'd seen on the way in.

"Cheers to a good day!" he calls out.

"Sagrona" you smile, cheersing in one of the many languages of Star Wars.

"You're like really into this" Daniel asks looking over you with a smirk.

"Mmmm i love Battuu it's like my home" you nod and he nods back.

"And say would a space girl ike yourself be free after you've saved the galaxy or whatever it you do here on Batuu?" he smiles and you shake your head.

"Mmmm yeah i might be... depends on the galaxy!" you grin and with that he took a sip of his drink smiling at you.

It was a great day, but you couldn't help but feel gutted when Daniel left.

You really wanted to spend more time with him as the witty banter you'd shared this afternoon felt like the two of you had connected, but you thought as you had watched him play around with P in the dark, wielding lightsabers you'd given them to mess about with for photos that maybe you had a chance despite his celebrity status.

However, the instagram comment on your post had you squealing.

y/user

Liked by danielricciardo, lando and maxverstappen1

y/user: Had so much fun showing these travellers around today!

Tagged 9 People

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danielricciardo: Still hoping for that drink space girl. Thanks for everything! ✌🏻❤️

-> y/user: no way! Hello hi, I’m freaking out rn!

-> lando: light reaction no work 👋🏼

lando: was lots of fun! Will have to show us around again! Maybe we can build a saber next time! 🫶🏼

kellypiquet: P had so much fun she will not stop talking about you! Thank you for keeping the magic!

-> maxverstappen1: Thank you Y/N!!!

Instagram Story Caption:

Showed the best Travellers around here today! 🇬🇧🇦🇺🇦🇺🇳🇱

Taglist:

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[cheriecelestial]

Thank you for the mini event!! Can I request a F1 Jason Todd x reader story?

Red Lights Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. mild suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. car accidents. injuries. mention of drug use. non-canon complacent. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I can't believe i got this request. Just the other day I was like I wanna write an F1 driver au for a character. Anon are you spying on me? Should I be concerned? Nonetheless this made me so so happy. Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ Comment to be added to taglist

Part 2

Jason Peter Todd was a man who, at the peak of his career, could effortlessly be regarded as the very embodiment of Formula 1 excellence. He was everything a driver dreamed of becoming—wealthy, young, impossibly gifted, and the adopted heir of none other than Bruce Wayne, the legendary “Dark Knight” of motorsport himself. A five-time world champion, Bruce in his prime had been a force of nature, drawing comparisons to icons like Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. And Jason? He was every bit his father's successor—perhaps even destined to surpass him.

Jason wasn't just successful; he was revolutionary. His meteoric rise shattered records with an almost casual ease. He wasn't just the youngest driver to ever compete in Formula 1—he was the youngest to win, and not just any race, but his very first. The accolades piled up faster than his rivals could keep track: most wins in a single season, most podium finishes, highest points tally ever recorded. The list seemed infinite, his potential boundless. The world adored him, idolizing him with near-religious fervor. Corporations fought tooth and nail for his endorsement, desperate to attach their brands to his golden image. Jason Todd—three-time world champion, impossibly handsome, and a marketing juggernaut—had single-handedly propelled Formula 1 into unprecedented popularity. Fans either wanted to stand beside him or become him.

There was no ceiling to what he could achieve. His future was a blinding horizon of endless possibility—until Bahrain.

The Sakhir Grand Prix unfolded under a scorching desert sun, the sky painted in hues of amber as dusk crept over the circuit. The air thrummed with the deafening roars of engines, the grandstands vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands. The final laps loomed, tension thick enough to cut through. Jason Todd, the prodigy, the phenom, was locked in a relentless pursuit of history—his fourth Bahrain Grand Prix victory within grasp. His car screamed down the straights, tires dancing on the knife's edge of control. He was pushing beyond limits, chasing glory as always.

But as he himself had said once before “Speed is a relentless god. And sometimes, it demands sacrifice.”

Bahrain's Sakhir Circuit had always been a beast of a track—deceptive in its sweeping curves, punishing in its tire degradation, unforgiving to even the slightest misjudgment. Jason's tires were fading fast, the rubber screaming in protest with every high-speed corner. The team's warnings buzzed in his ear, urgent yet distant, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Roy Harper, his closest friend and fiercest rival, loomed in his mirrors, a mere eight-tenths of a second behind—close enough to strike if Jason so much as blinked.

The radio crackled again, the voice of his engineer strained with concern: “Jason, watch the rear left—it's going off!”

But Jason Todd had never been one to yield. Not to his rivals. Not to the limits of physics. And certainly not to caution. He was five laps away from etching his name deeper into the history books, from claiming yet another record that would silence even his harshest critics. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the intoxicating rush of speed—it all blurred into a singular, all-consuming obsession. He knew his car better than anyone alive. He had pushed it beyond its limits before and walked away victorious. Why would this time be any different?

At 200 miles per hour, the world narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and adrenaline. The next turn approached—a brutal, high-speed corner that demanded precision. He braked hard, but the rear tires, worn to the cords, betrayed him. The car shuddered, the tail snapping out in a violent fishtail. For a heartbeat, his reflexes prevailed—his hands a blur as he wrestled the steering wheel, correcting the slide with the instincts of a champion.

And then—catastrophe.

A deafening bang ripped through the air as his left rear tire failed explosively. The car lurched sideways, spearing toward the barriers at a near-perpendicular angle. The carbon-fiber monocoque—a marvel of engineering designed to withstand brutal impacts—shattered like glass upon collision. The force of the crash sent debris flying in a lethal storm of shrapnel, scattering across the track in a grotesque spectacle. The wreckage rebounded violently, spinning back onto the racing line—just as Roy Harper's car, helpless to avoid the chaos, hurtled into the carnage.

A second impact. A sickening crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

Roy had no time to react. No time to swerve. His front wing speared through the mangled remains of Jason's cockpit like a blade. The halo device—the very piece of safety equipment designed to protect drivers from such horrors—held firm, but the sheer force of the collision tore the survival cell apart, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

The voice of Dick Grayson—Jason's brother, his race engineer and his unwavering support—crackled over the radio, raw with desperation. A silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.

And then, as if the universe itself sought to twist the knife deeper, fuel from Roy's ruptured tank spilled onto the scorched asphalt. A single spark—a fleeting, inevitable spark—ignited the fumes.

The world erupted in flames.

Marshals in fireproof suits charged forward, their extinguishers spraying thick plumes of retardant, but the devastation was absolute. The grandstands fell eerily silent, thousands of spectators frozen in horror. Mechanics, engineers, and rival team members stood motionless, hands clasped in prayer or pressed over mouths in disbelief. Roy Harper, miraculously conscious but dazed, was dragged from his ruined car with relative ease—his injuries severe but survivable.

But Jason Todd?

The reigning world champion was still trapped inside the inferno.

The fireproof material of his race suit glowed beneath the flames, his silhouette barely visible through the thick, black smoke. Over the team radio, Dick Grayson's voice cracked with increasing desperation, begging for any sign of life. “Jason, talk to me. Please, just say something—anything!” Only static answered.

The medical car arrived within seconds, but the violence of the crash had left almost no room for hope. The extraction was a nightmare—jaws of life prying apart twisted metal, paramedics shouting over the roar of the flames. When they finally pulled him free, his body was limp, his helmet scorched, his suit seared in places. The world blurred into chaos after that—screaming sirens, frantic radio calls, the paddock holding its breath.

Then, whispers spread through the garage like wildfire.

The hospital's initial prognosis was grim: incompatible with life. The injuries were catastrophic—internal bleeding, multiple fractures, third-degree burns covering nearly 40% of his body. At one point, his heart stopped entirely, flatlining for over a minute as Bruce Wayne, the legendary Dark Knight of motorsport, stood helpless outside the ICU, restraining a sobbing Dick Grayson from pounding on the glass in sheer despair.

Time of death: 20:45 hours.

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

But then—

A single, weak beep.

The head surgeon blinked, certain he had imagined it. Then another. And another. Jason's heart, stubborn as the man himself, refused to surrender. The news rocketed through the paddock, a shockwave of disbelief and cautious relief: Jason Peter Todd was alive. Barely. Clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, but alive.

What followed was a waking nightmare.

Roy Harper, consumed by guilt, retired from Formula 1 immediately, unable to bear the weight of what had happened. Months later, he was found half-dead in a hotel room, an empty bottle of pills beside him—another casualty of that cursed day. The FIA scrambled to implement new safety regulations, mandating stronger cockpit protections and stricter tire wear monitoring. The team, once dominant, floundered without their star driver.

And Jason?

He slept.

For six agonizing months, he remained in a coma, his body healing at a glacial pace. When he finally woke, the details were kept fiercely private—no press releases, no interviews, just a single, guarded statement confirming his consciousness. But those who saw him in those early days knew: the Jason Todd who emerged from the darkness was not the same man who had entered it.

The fire had taken more than just flesh.

It had taken a legend.

“I want to race.”

The words hit Bruce Wayne like a physical blow.

For a man who had stood unshaken in the face of countless crises—both as a five-time world champion and as the iron-willed owner of Wayne Racing—the sheer weight of that simple declaration brought the world to a staggering halt. His son's voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and fractured, yet burning with a desperation that cut deeper than any scream could have.

It had been two months since Jason Todd had woken from the abyss of his coma. Two months of slow, agonizing progress—of bandages being peeled away, of casts removed, of wounds grudgingly closing. The hospital had kept the worst of the scarring hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, not just for medical reasons, but out of fear for his fragile psyche. The first days after his awakening had been a storm of rage and denial—violent outbursts that left nurses scrambling for sedatives, his own body betraying him as orderlies pinned him down to keep him from tearing at IV lines and heart monitor leads.

The crash had taken more than flesh and bone. The doctors had warned Bruce in hushed tones: PTSD. Depression. Nightmares that never end. Jason's body, though stable, was a battleground. His mind? A warzone.

“I understand, Jay, but—”

“No, you don't!” Jason's voice shattered like glass against steel. “You don't get it! These four walls, these fucking machines and tubes—they're driving me insane. I don't belong here!”

And he was right.

Jason Todd had never been meant for cages. He was wildfire in human form—meant to blaze across the rain-slicked straights of Interlagos, to carve through the golden-hour shadows of COTA's esses, to exist where the air smelled of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, not antiseptic and despair. The hospital was a prison, and every second spent trapped inside it was another piece of him dying.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor rather than meeting his son's fever-bright eyes. “Jason,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “you need to heal.”

Jason's hands clenched into fists, the heart rate monitor spiking beside him. “I have healed enough!”

The words weren't just defiance—they were a plea, a demand, a last stand. Because Jason Todd had spent his entire life pushing past limits, and this? This was no different.

Except it was.

And the crushing weight of that truth hung between them, suffocating and unspoken. Bruce, the man who had faced down the most ruthless competitors on the track, who had rebuilt entire teams from ashes, found himself paralyzed by the one battle he couldn't strategize his way out of. How do you make a force of nature understand it's been fractured?

Bruce didn't—couldn't—answer. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything left unsaid. The heart monitor's steady beep mocked them, a cruel reminder of time moving forward even when Jason's world had screeched to a halt.

Then, like a blade slicing through the tension, Jason spoke again, his voice stripped of its earlier fire, replaced by something colder. “Who did the seat go to?”

It was a logical question. The season hadn't ended with his crash. The circus marched on, the cars kept racing, and the world didn't stop turning just because Jason Todd had been ripped out of his cockpit.

“Tim got the seat.”

Tim Drake. The reigning F2 champion. Bruce's godson. The kid with a mind sharper than a scalpel and reflexes that bordered on preternatural. After his parents' tragic death, Bruce had taken him in, just as he had with Jason. And Jason knew—hated that he knew—Tim was good. Scary good. But potential didn't change the brutal arithmetic of Formula 1: seats were finite. Tim's promotion meant Jason's throne had been filled before he'd even left the ICU.

Before the crash, Jason's teammate had been Cassandra Cain. A prodigy in her own right, the only woman on the grid outside of Themyscira Formula One team—Diana Prince's all-female team, founded to shatter the sport's glass ceiling. Cass had been more than a teammate; she'd become family. Diana herself had tried to poach her, offering a coveted seat in her revolutionary outfit. But Cass had chosen Wayne Racing, loyalty outweighing opportunity. And Jason would sooner set himself on fire again than take her place.

“He's half-baked at best,” Jason spat, the words dripping with acid. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “I saw him at testing. He can't do shit.”

Tim Drake was brilliant. A prodigy by any measure, but raw talent wasn't enough in Formula 1 and brilliance didn't erase inexperience. Not when you were thrust into the spotlight mid-season, expected to fill the void left by a living legend. Not when every lap, every turn, every mistake was measured against the ghost of Jason Todd—the youngest champion, the record-breaker, the firebrand who had redefined what it meant to be fearless behind the wheel.

Tim wasn't just racing against the competition. He was racing against a memory. And right now, memory was winning.

Bruce exhaled, slow and measured. “But that doesn't change the fact that you're not ready yet.”

Jason's jaw clenched. “The season's coming to an end. I have plenty of time to train and get back in the game by the time next season rolls around.”

“Jason, but—”

“YOU DON'T GET TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”

The roar tore through the room, raw and unfiltered. In a flash of movement, Jason's hand shot out, snatching the call remote from the side of his bed. Before Bruce could react, it was hurled through the air with enough force to shatter the fragile illusion of control Jason had been clinging to.

Bruce sidestepped on instinct, the remote clattering against the wall behind him. But when his gaze snapped back to his son—really looked at him for the first time since entering the room—something in him faltered.

A flinch.

Subtle, involuntary, but there.

Jason saw it. Saw the way Bruce's eyes flickered, the way his breath hitched for the barest fraction of a second. Saw the look in his father's gaze—not just concern, not just frustration, but something far worse.

Revulsion.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

The realization hit Jason like a lightning. His chest tightened, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind something hollow and brittle.

Bruce Wayne—the man who had faced down the most dangerous corners in the world without blinking, who had stared death in the eye more times than he could count—flinched at the sight of his own son.

And in that moment, Jason understood.

This wasn't just about whether he was ready to race again.

This was about whether he'd ever be seen the same way again.

“Boy Wonder No More?”“Crash Down Bahrain Lane: What It Means for the Champion Team”“Robin Fails to Fly”

The headlines screamed at him from every newsstand, every digital feed, every godforsaken screen in the hospital waiting room. Bold, black letters against stark white backgrounds, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the wound. And beneath them—always beneath them—the same grotesque images: his car wrapped around the barriers, the inferno licking at the sky, the thick plume of smoke staining the Bahraini horizon like an omen.

They had reduced his entire legacy to a single, catastrophic moment.

Three-time world champion. Youngest race winner in history. The driver who had redefined dominance. None of it mattered now. The trophies gathering dust in Wayne Manor's halls, the records that still bore his name, the races where he'd crossed the line with his fist raised in triumph—all of it was trumped by one mistake. One lapse in judgment. One turn taken a fraction too late.

Jason Todd: No longer the Boy Wonder. Now, forevermore, The One Who Died.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had died—if only for a minute. Flatlined on the table, his heart stubbornly restarting as if to spite the universe itself. But the world didn't care about comebacks. It cared about spectacle. And what was more spectacular than the fall of a golden child?

He was Lucifer, wasn't he? God's most favored son, the brightest of angels, cast down from heaven for the sin of pride. Wings broken, flames licking at his heels as he plummeted into the abyss. Maybe it had always been inevitable. Maybe this was his divine punishment—for daring to believe he was untouchable, for thinking the throne was his by right.

Fall from grace. Fall from his throne. Fall from his rightful spot.

So he trained.

Day and night, through the pain that lanced up his spine with every movement, through the phantom screams of tires that echoed in his dreams. He pushed his body to the brink, then past it, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced them to remember what they'd once been capable of. The rage inside him was a living thing, coiled tight around his ribs, whispering in his ear: Prove them wrong. Make them regret it.

There were days when the fury was all-consuming, a black tide that drowned out reason. Days when he'd catch his reflection—the scars, the hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of a face that had once been called ridiculously pretty—and something inside him would snap. Mirrors shattered under his fists. Posters torn from walls, trophies hurled across rooms, their polished surfaces dented against the hardwood. The boy who had been worshiped now couldn't stand the sight of himself.

Bruce tried. He really did. He threw money at the media, buying silence where he could, burying stories of Jason's outbursts beneath layers of PR spin and legal threats. Staff members who looked at Jason with pity in their eyes found themselves abruptly unemployed. But none of it changed the truth: Bruce Wayne, for all his resources, all his power, didn't know how to fix this.

How do you mend a shattered reputation? How do you rebuild a ghost?

The world had already written Jason Todd's epitaph. Now he had to claw his way out of the grave.

The new season began with a quiet humiliation—Tim Drake, the temporary heir to Jason's throne, was demoted back to F2 with barely a whisper of protest. If anything, the young driver seemed relieved to return to the junior category, away from the suffocating expectations of filling Jason Todd's fireproof shoes.

Jason reclaimed his seat, but not his crown.

The first race back was... acceptable. Mediocre by his old standards, but passable for a man who'd crawled back from death's doorstep. The commentators tiptoed around his performance—“He's shaking off rust,” they said. “The speed will come,” they assured. But Jason heard the unspoken truth beneath their carefully chosen words: the fire that had once made him untouchable had dimmed to embers.

Heavens know how he tried. But no amount of willpower could stop his breath from shortening at corners that reminded him of that turn in Bahrain. No mental gymnastics could prevent his palms from sweating through his gloves when the pack bunched too close. The doctors had a name for it: PTSD-induced panic attacks. Jason had another word for it: weakness.

And weakness had no place in Formula 1.

Race after race, he watched helplessly as rivals streamed past—drivers he'd once dominated now leaving him in their wake. The unthinkable happened in Jeddah: Jason Todd, the boy wonder who'd podiumed here in his rookie year, finished outside the points for the first time since his debut.

The garage wrapped him in cotton-wool encouragement. “You'll get there, J.” “Just need more seat time.” Each well-meaning word landed like a scalpel, peeling back layers of pride to reveal the rot beneath—their pity, their disappointment, their fading belief in the myth of Jason Todd.

He wanted to scream. To tear the fucking garage apart. To make them all see—really see—what this was doing to him. But he stayed silent, letting their hollow encouragement wash over him like acid rain.

The truth was simple: Jason Todd wasn't back. He was just... there. Haunting his own career. And the worst part? He wasn't sure which was more unbearable—the idea that this might be permanent, or the terrifying possibility that the old Jason, the real Jason, had died in that Bahrain crash after all.

Jason leaned heavily against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. Below him, the team party roared on—champagne corks popping, laughter ringing through the Wayne Racing hospitality suite. Cass had podiumed at their home race in Gotham, keeping the team's legacy alive where he had failed. He was proud of her. She'd earned this. But pride couldn't fill the hollow space in his chest where ambition used to live.

The nicotine burned his lungs in a way that felt almost comforting. The old Jason—the real Jason—had treated his body like a temple. No alcohol, no junk food, certainly no cigarettes. Every calorie counted, every heartbeat optimized for performance. But that man had died in Bahrain. This new version of him? This one didn't give a damn.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the Gotham night. It was funny, in a twisted way. Every drag brought him back to that moment—the acrid smell of burning carbon fiber, the taste of gasoline and fear. In a world where nothing felt familiar anymore, only the memory of his destruction remained vivid.

“I thought F1 drivers weren't allowed to smoke.”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a young woman swaying slightly, her cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand. She couldn't have been more than mid to early twenties, her designer dress wrinkled from dancing, her makeup smudged at the edges. Some sponsor's daughter, probably. Or a journalist's plus-one.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jason said flatly. “The bar's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the party without looking at her.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she persisted, ignoring his dismissal. “You're the best of the best. You're supposed to—”

“I'm roadkill, sweetheart.” The words came out harsher than he intended, edged with something bitter. “All charred meat and bones. Ain't nothing special anymore.” He waved the cigarette absently, sending a lazy spiral of smoke her way. “They don't get rid of me ‘cause I've got too much on them to lose.”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then, with a suddenness that almost made him laugh, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and flicked it over the railing.

“Hey—!”

“You listen up,” she slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are Jason fucking Todd. You are literally the coolest.” Her words were drunken, but her conviction was startling. She said it like it was scripture. Like she truly believed it from the bottom of her heart.

“That was before the—”

“NO!”

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and unyielding, all traces of drunken slurring stripped away by sheer frustration. She stepped closer, invading his space, her finger jabbing into his chest with enough force to make him stagger back half a step. The scent of vodka and citrus clung to her breath, but her gaze was startlingly clear—burning with an intensity that pinned him in place.

“Don't you dare give me that.”

Her words struck like a hammer to glass.

“You're still him. It doesn't matter how deep you bury yourself in hate and self-pity, you're still the Jason I know.” Her voice cracked, raw with something that sounded too much like betrayal. “And honestly? You're the best out there is— snap the fuck out of it. And also don’t you dare talk smack about my idol. Because I will fight you for it.”

Normally, Jason would’ve had security drag her away by now. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate some drunk stranger laying into him like this. But there was nothing normal about tonight.

Because she wasn’t tiptoeing around him. Wasn’t feeding him hollow platitudes or empty encouragement. She was the first person in months who looked at him and didn’t see a cautionary tale—just a man too stubborn to climb out of the hole he dug himself.

And damn if that didn’t terrify him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that bordered on violence. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Her voice broke, and suddenly, the anger bled into something else entirely. Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara in inky rivers down her cheeks. The dam broke—great, heaving sobs wracked her frame, her words dissolving into incoherent hiccups.

Jason stood frozen, arms stiff at his sides, utterly unprepared for the emotional hurricane in front of him. He glanced toward the party, grateful the crowd was still oblivious, but the reprieve was short-lived.

Footsteps pounded against the terrace tiles.

Danny, one of his oldest friends, a race mechanic who’d known him since their karting days—burst onto the balcony, breathless and wide-eyed.

The woman whirled, launching herself at Danny with a wail. “Dan-Dan, he—” She jabbed a finger wildly at Jason, her words devolving into unintelligible sniffles.

Danny caught her, steadying her swaying frame. “He what?”

“He’s being mean.”

Jason’s hands flew up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything to her!”

Danny’s gaze flicked between them, bewildered. “To whom?”

“To himself!” she wailed, fresh tears erupting. “Tell him to stop!”

Realization dawned on Danny’s face, followed swiftly by mortification. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose like a man praying for patience.

“Toddster, I am so sorry for her behavior,” he muttered, already maneuvering her toward the door. “Please forgive her.”

Jason barely had time to process before Danny hauled her away, her protests fading into the din of the party.

The balcony was silent again.

Jason stared at the empty space where they’d stood.

What the hell just happened?

The next race weekend arrived with an unexpected turn—Jason clawed his way past the midfield, securing a respectable finish that, while nowhere near his former glory, at least silenced the whispers of his inevitable decline. The garage hummed with cautious optimism, the tension easing just enough for Dick to crack a joke, for the engineers to clap him on the back without that lingering hesitation. It was progress.

But Jason's mind wasn't on the race.

It was on her.

That drunken, furious woman who'd screamed at him like he was worth the effort. Her words had burrowed under his skin, festering like a splinter he couldn't dig out. “You're still the Jason I know.” The worst part? She'd said it like she meant it. Like she'd seen him—really seen him—through the wreckage of Bahrain and still believed in whatever of himself remained.

He'd resigned himself to never seeing her again.

Until the broadcast screens flashed her face.

There she was—no smudged mascara, no vodka-induced haze—standing trackside with a microphone in hand, interviewing the podium finishers with effortless charm. The realization hit him like a missed gear shift: she wasn't just some random party crasher. She was one of the presenters. And now that he really looked, he did recognize her. Not just from the balcony, but from the periphery of his world for months. Lingering near Danny in the garage, passing through the paddock with a press badge. He'd been too consumed by his own spiral to notice.

His curiosity flared.

He watched her wrap up the interview, then slip toward the back of the garage—a restricted area for presenters. Equipment rooms weren't on the media tour. Even if she was connected to Danny, she had no business there.

For the sake of the company, Jason told himself, and followed.

The equipment room was dim, cluttered with spare parts and toolkits. She was already inside, rummaging through a duffel bag that looked suspiciously personal.

“Looking for something, miss?”

She whirled, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. “I-I wasn't snooping, I swear! I just came to get my bag—”

“Yes, of course,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “And about that night on the terrace...”

Her face drained of color, lips parting slightly as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “I'm so sorry, really,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I understand if you want to press charges, but just know I—”

“Actually,” Jason interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “What.”

It wasn't a question—it was pure, unfiltered disbelief, the kind that left her rooted to the spot, staring at him like he'd just spoken in tongues.

Jason exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of vulnerability. The movement was almost self-conscious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this moment either. “You were right,” he admitted, the words rough but sincere. “About... all of it.”

His gaze lifted to hers, bracing for the pity he'd grown so accustomed to seeing in people's eyes. But it wasn't there. Instead, he found something far more disarming—wary confusion, yes, but beneath it, a flicker of something that might've been hope. Or maybe just surprise that he hadn't thrown her out of the garage yet.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

Then, as if her brain had finally caught up with the absurdity of the situation, she blurted: “So... you're not gonna press charges? Or slap me with a lawsuit that would probably cost more than everything I own and land me in jail?” The words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly. “Because, honestly, I've been mentally preparing for that exact scenario for the past week, and—”

Jason laughed.

Not the hollow, humorless sound he'd been making for the past year, but a real, genuine laugh—the kind that caught even him off guard. It rumbled deep in his chest, startlingly warm in the dim light of the equipment room.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation: “But if you're feeling that guilty, you could make it up to me by keeping me company over dinner.”

The woman looked like she was about to faint.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You—what?”

Jason arched a brow. “You heard me.”

“You're asking me to dinner?”

“Unless you'd prefer the lawsuit?”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the dawning realization that he was, in fact, serious. And then—slowly, hesitantly—the corners of her lips curled upward. “You're insane.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. Thought you knew that already. So what's the verdict?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe her own answer. “...Fine. Better than a ruined career I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Jason said, pushing off the doorframe. “Now, you gonna tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘the drunk girl who yelled at me’ in my head?”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

The moment Jason’s manager contacted her after their encounter in the equipment room, reality hit like a sudden downpour at a race—unexpected and impossible to ignore. A sleek car would arrive at her doorstep at 7 PM sharp, the message stated, its tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilaration and sheer terror.

What if this was all an elaborate trap?

The thought circled her mind like a vulture. Maybe Jason Todd had taken offense to her drunken tirade, and this dinner was simply a prelude to legal annihilation—a chance to personally serve her with a lawsuit that would bankrupt her and tarnish her fledgling career before it even took off. The possibilities were endless, and none of them comforting.

But beneath the anxiety, a traitorous spark of anticipation flickered.

Because it was Jason Todd.

Three-time world champion. The man whose posters had adorned her walls as a teenager. The driver whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion long before she ever stepped foot in the paddock as a presenter. And now? Now she was supposed to sit across from him at a dinner table without combusting from sheer nerves.

Outfit crisis imminent.

As a presenter, her wardrobe was extensive—filled with sleek blazers, tailored dresses, and enough heels to make a fashion blogger weep. But suddenly, nothing felt sufficient. Too formal? Too casual? Too try-hard? She stood frozen in front of her closet, hands buried in her hair, as the existential dread mounted.

“Steph. Help.”

The phone call to Stephanie Brown—her closest friend and a rising star in the motorsports styling world—was nothing short of a distress signal.

“I have a very, very, very important dinner today, and I have nothing to wear. What do I do? Should I just die? God, I can’t do this. I—”

“Woah, woah, easy, girl,” Steph interrupted, her voice a calming anchor amidst the storm. “I caught ‘dinner,’ ‘important,’ and ‘nothing to wear’—that correct?” A muffled sound followed, then Steph’s sharp, “Tim, stop that—”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, nodding vigorously out of habit despite Steph’s inability to see her. “Also, tell Tim congratulations for his podium. I was going to catch up with you guys, but you’d already flown out.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steph sighed. “Tim just couldn’t wait to get some ‘me time’ at home.” The unspoken eye roll was almost audible.

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.”

“See? Y/N gets it!” Tim’s voice chirped in the background, smug.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Steph snapped. “Ain’t nobody asked yo ass.” What followed was a familiar symphony of bickering— a dynamic so ingrained it nearly made her smile despite her panic.

“Steph! Dinner!” she interjected before the couple could fully derail.

“Oh, right.” Steph’s tone shifted back to business. “Let’s see—is this like a professional ‘don’t fuck with me’ dinner? Or a ‘I lowkey wanna bang you’ dinner? Or a ‘this could’ve been an email’ dinner?”

The blunt categorization forced a laugh out of her, but the truth was far more complicated. “It’s a ‘please don’t kill me and my career’ dinner,” she confessed, voice small.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/N,” Steph said slowly, “What did you do?”

“Fucked up big time.” The admission came out in a rush, followed by Tim’s audible “Ooh,” in the background.

“Shut up, Tim!” Both girls barked in unison, effectively silencing the young driver.

Steph’s sigh was long-suffering. “Alright. First, breathe. Second, we’re fixing this. But you owe me the full story later.”

Y/N had stood in the presence of racing legends before - interviewed world champions with champagne still dripping from their hair, exchanged banter with team principals who controlled billion-dollar empires, even moderated press conferences where the tension between rival drivers could have powered the entire paddock. Yet none of those experiences could compare to the visceral, gut-churning nerves currently twisting her stomach into knots as the luxury car glided toward the restaurant.

It was ironic really. She'd interacted with Jason Todd quite a few times in professional settings - the obligatory media day interviews, the post-race scrums where she'd lobbed softball questions about tire strategy and a couple more here and there. Those encounters should have made this easier. Familiarity should have bred comfort.

But this wasn't a media event with carefully scripted questions and PR handlers monitoring every word. This was dinner. Intimate. Unfiltered. Just two people and whatever uncomfortable truths might surface between the appetizer and dessert.

Before that disastrous night on the terrace, she would have sold her soul for this opportunity - a private audience with the man whose racing prowess had inspired her career path. Now? Now she fantasized about the floor opening up beneath her. The cruel twist of fate wasn't just that Jason Todd finally knew she existed - it was that he knew her as the drunken harpy who'd screamed at him like some deranged fangirl.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the burgundy tulle of her dress, the delicate fabric whispering with every fidget. Stephanie had insisted this was the perfect choice - “It says ‘I’m too sexy to kill, so please don't ruin my career’,” she'd declared while wrestling Y/N into the designer garment through the phone. The color was no accident either: Jason's signature shade, the one that adorned his helmet and racing suit. A subtle homage or a desperate plea for mercy? She wasn't sure anymore.

The car slowed as they approached their destination - one of those impossibly exclusive restaurants where the maître d' could spot an impostor from fifty paces. The kind of establishment where reservations required connections more than money, though God knew there'd be plenty of both behind these doors. Y/N had walked past places like this her whole life, never imagining she'd actually enter one - certainly not under these circumstances.

Through the tinted windows, the restaurant's facade glowed like some temple of the elite, its polished brass and artfully distressed oak radiating quiet money and old-world power. The sort of place where Bruce Wayne might hold court in a private dining room while discussing billion-dollar deals between courses.

Her throat went dry. Against the combined might of Wayne Enterprises and Jason Todd's racing fortune, she was utterly insignificant. A single ill-advised outburst could vaporize not just her career, but Danny's position at the team too. The weight of that realization settled over her like a lead apron as the car door opened, releasing her into the lion's den.

The maître d' didn't even check the reservation list. One glance at her and he was nodding deferentially. “Mr. Todd's guest. Right this way.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown to judgment. Somewhere in this temple of haute cuisine, Jason Todd waited and Y/N wasn't sure whether to beg for forgiveness or prepare for war. The ambient chatter of the elite patrons seemed to fade into a distant hum as her eyes scanned the dimly lit dining room, searching for the one face that had haunted her thoughts since that disastrous balcony confrontation.

And then she saw him.

Jason Todd sat bathed in the warm glow of an artfully placed spotlight, looking every bit the racing royalty he was. The crisp lines of his tailored shirt—a deep burgundy that matched her dress with embarrassing precision—stretched across his broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of the scars that marred his collarbone and running up his neck. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times in frustration and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched her approach.

“Wasn't aware there was a dress code,” he remarked dryly, his voice laced with amusement as his gaze flickered pointedly between her dress and his own shirt.

Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, turning her face the same shade as the offending fabric. Goddammit, Stephanie.

“It's a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding into the plush chair opposite him with all the grace of a startled deer. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him—studying the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, the way the candlelight reflected off the polished silverware, the distant exit sign she was sorely tempted to bolt toward.

Jason chuckled lowly, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I know I ain’t much to look at, but you don’t need to make it so obvious,” he teased, accepting the leather-bound menu from the waiter with a nod of thanks.

Her head snapped up at that, indignation momentarily overriding her embarrassment. “What? No! You're gorgeous—”

The words tumbled out unchecked, her filter obliterated by sheer panic.

Jason froze, the menu hovering mid-air as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. A slow, dangerously smug grin spread across his face. “I see,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice making her want to vault over the table and strangle him—or maybe herself.

Mortified, Y/N yanked the menu up like a shield, pressing the cool leather against her burning face. You're so done, Y/N, her inner voice screamed at her, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

From behind her makeshift barricade, she heard Jason let out a huff that oddly sounded like a  laugh—the kind that vibrated through his chest and made her traitorous stomach flip. “You planning to order from behind there or should I just guess what you want?”

She groaned, the sound muffled by the menu. It trembled slightly in Y/N's grip as she fought to regain control of her traitorous tongue. The embossed letters blurred before her eyes— foie gras, truffle-infused something, caviar that probably cost more than her monthly rent. None of it registered.

The candle between them cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow— a souvenir from his early racing days that no media outlet had ever gotten the full story on.

“It's a bold strategy,” Jason mused, leaning back in his chair with the effortless grace of someone completely at home in this world of white tablecloths and thousand-dollar bottles of wine. “First you scream at me drunk, now you're trying to suffocate yourself with the menu. I'm starting to think you've got a death wish, doll.”

Y/N finally dropped the menu with a defeated thud. “I was hoping for spontaneous combustion actually,” she admitted, reaching for her water glass with only the slightest tremor in her fingers. “Seems more dignified than whatever this is.”

Jason's laughter rang out, unfiltered and unguarded. It transformed his face completely - the harsh lines of trauma and exhaustion momentarily smoothed away, revealing the more of the boyish charmer who'd taken the racing world by storm years ago, almost making Y/N's heart stagger.

“But you know,” He said swirling the liquid in his glass with deliberate nonchalance, “most people who think I'm going to ruin their careers don't compliment me quite so... enthusiastically.”

The ice cubes clinked mockingly as he took a sip.

“I was being polite,” Y/N lied through clenched teeth, surrendering her menu shield to the hovering waiter.

“Polite would've been ‘you clean up nice.’ But ‘Gorgeous’?” He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes. “That's the kind of word that makes a man think dangerous thoughts.”

The waiter chose that moment to reappear with their first course - some delicate arrangement of edible flowers and microgreens that looked more like a museum installation than food. Y/N seized the distraction like a lifeline, stabbing at her plate with slightly more force than necessary.

“Careful,” Jason murmured, watching her assault on the defenseless appetizer. “That fork's not one of my sponsors.” Y/N shrugged and muttered something unintelligble before continuning with the same.

“Christ, you’re something else,” he said, shaking his head as he signaled the sommelier. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something more contemplative. “Look, let's get one thing straight - you're not here because I'm planning to sue you into oblivion.”

The waiter arrived with the wine list before she could respond. Jason barely glanced at it. “The '89 Margaux,” he said automatically, then paused. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Y/N blinked. That particular Bordeaux cost more than what she made in a month. “The... the Margaux is perfect,” she managed, watching as Jason nodded dismissal to the waiter.

When they were alone again, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his shoulders, and Y/N suddenly found the stem of her water glass fascinating.

“I asked you here,” Jason continued, voice dropping into a more serious register, “because you were the first person in a year who didn't treat me like either a ticking time bomb or a broken trophy.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass absentmindedly.

The raw honesty in his words stole Y/N's breath. This wasn't the carefully curated media persona or the angry driver she'd confronted on the balcony. This was Jason Todd stripped bare— vulnerable in a way she'd never imagined seeing.

Her professional instincts warred with something far more personal. “I saw someone who needed to get his head out of his ass,” she said before she could stop herself, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was-”

“No,” Jason interrupted, that ghost of a smile returning. “That's exactly it. It was... refreshing. Let's just say it helped me think differently.” His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the tablecloth. “And I'd like to thank you for that.”

Y/N nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine to buy time. The rich, oaky flavor bloomed across her tongue. “You're welcome, I suppose,” she murmured, the rim of the glass muffling her words slightly.

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of silverware and the muted conversations of other diners. Jason's gaze drifted to the window where Gotham's skyline glittered against the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” he said suddenly, turning back to her with renewed focus, “you're free to make conversation with me. It's more entertaining than most people I talk to.”

The challenge in his tone sparked something in Y/N. She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment before asking, “So what do you do when you're not racing?”

It was a genuine question - one she'd always wondered about. In every interview she'd ever watched or conducted with Jason Todd, the conversation inevitably circled back to racing strategies, training regimens, or future competitions. His social media showed nothing but carefully curated content - podium finishes, sponsor events, the occasional vacation photo that still somehow related to racing. There was never any glimpse of who Jason Todd might be when he stepped away from the track.

Jason opened his mouth automatically. “Um, I usually train or go over my past races, analyze data, study tracks—”

“No,” Y/N interrupted gently but firmly. “I mean outside of racing. You've pretty much dedicated all of you to racing, but who is Jason Todd outside of that?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, and for the first time that evening, the ever-present confidence in his posture faltered slightly. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second.

Jason's brow furrowed as he stared into his wine glass, as if the answer might be hidden in its depths. When he finally looked up, there was something unsettlingly vulnerable in his expression.

He paused, then continued with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter, “I mean I used to read.” The admission came slowly, dragged up from some long-buried place in his memory. “Before races. History, mostly.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “There was... there was something about empires rising and falling that put the whole 'will I qualify P1 or P2' thing in perspective.”

Y/N found herself leaning forward without realizing it. This was new territory - an actual glimpse behind the carefully constructed media persona. The Jason Todd of press conferences and interviews was all sharp edges and racing statistics, a human embodiment of competitive drive. This Jason? This one had layers.

“And now?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Jason's thumb traced slow circles around the base of his glass, his gaze distant. “Now I...” The sentence trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a rougher edge, the words tinged with something like self-reproach. “Christ, you're right. There isn't a Jason Todd outside of racing. Hasn't been for a long time.”

Y/N could see the moment of realization hitting him, could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he confronted this truth about himself. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of his eyes - she recognized the signs of someone spiraling inward with uncomfortable self-examination.

Seeking to lighten the mood before it turned too heavy, she quipped, “For someone who just admitted he has no life outside racing, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me to take this dinner seriously as a networking opportunity.”

The tension shattered as Jason barked out a surprised laugh that made the waiters look curiously. “Fuck you,” he shot back, but there was no real venom in it - just a warmth that softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor. He speared a bite of his appetizer with more force than necessary, the action betraying his lingering discomfort with the direction of their conversation. “Fine. Next time I'll lie. Tell you I breed rare orchids or some shit.”

“Next time?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own fork hovering mid-air as she caught the implication.

Jason froze for a fraction of a second, then recovered with a shrug that was far too studied to be casual. “Figure of speech.” But the way his eyes darted briefly away, the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, told a different story entirely.

Y/N deadpanned, “You just admitted your entire identity is wrapped up in going fast in circles. That means we've got our work cut out for us.”

“'We'?” Jason latched onto the word with surprising quickness, his tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm though something in his eyes betrayed genuine curiosity. “As in you want to accompany me in this grand journey of self-discovery?” The question was framed as rhetorical, but there was an undercurrent of something more - a quiet hope that surprised even him.

Y/N smiled at his characteristic sarcastic flair, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was. “That depends on you, Mr. Todd,” she replied, matching his tone but letting her amusement show through.

Jason regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it does,” he finally conceded, the words neither a confirmation nor denial, but something intriguingly in between.

The sleek black town car had glided through the city's rain-slicked streets in near silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as Jason’s chauffeur navigated the late-night traffic. Y/N had sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, fingers twisting in her lap, replaying every moment of the evening in her head. Jason had been... different than she expected. Not the brooding, closed-off champion the media painted him as, but someone sharper, wittier—someone who had actually laughed at her jokes.

When the car finally pulled up to her apartment building, she had thanked the driver with a polite smile, maintaining her composure right up until the moment her front door clicked shut behind her.

Then her knees gave out.

She slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor, back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up, followed immediately by a wave of sheer panic.

She needed to talk to someone. Now.

Stephanie picked up the video call on the second ring, her face already alight with curiosity. “Okay, so how did it go?”

Y/N opened her mouth—and promptly burst into tears. Stephanie’s eyes widened as Y/N devolved into a babbling, incoherent mess, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs.

“I can’t understand shit,” Stephanie said, leaning closer to the screen. “Are these happy tears or sad?”

“Seems happy to me,” Tim chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Happy?” Stephanie repeated, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re acting like Jason Todd took you on a date or something.”

Y/N froze.

Then, slowly, she looked up at Stephanie through her lashes, her lips quirking into a sheepish smile. “I mean—” A giggle escaped, high-pitched and entirely involuntary.

Stephanie’s expression morphed into pure shock. “Hol’up, bitch. What do you mean by ‘I mean’? Whatchu teehee’ing for?” she shrieked, loud enough that Y/N had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Y/N went on a date with who now?” Tim’s voice floated into frame as he leaned over Stephanie’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“That’s why I just asked her, dipshit,” Stephanie snapped, shoving him away.

“It wasn’t a date,” Y/N insisted, though the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger betrayed her. “I mean, it was one in my head, but that doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Y/N snapped out of her daze, straightening up as the full weight of the evening came crashing back. Words poured out of her in a frantic, breathless rush—Jason’s unexpected dinner invitation, the way he’d actually listened to her, the way his smirk had softened into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.

Stephanie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Jason FUCKING Todd? As in three-time world champion Jason Todd? The guy who hasn’t been seen in public outside of races for like a year? The same Jason Todd whose poster you had above your bed and wrote like a thousand fanfictions about in high school and college? The one who’s—”

“Steph! That was years ago!” Y/N’s face burned so hot she was surprised her phone didn’t melt.

From the background, Tim’s voice piped up again, smug. “Wait, Y/N had a crush on Ja—”

“TIMOTHY DRAKE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD—”

A scuffle ensued, followed by a yelp and the sound of something—or someone—being forcibly silenced.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Then her phone chimed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

Her stomach dropped. With trembling fingers, she opened the message.

Unknown: So when do we start?

Y/N let out a strangled scream and threw her phone across the room like it had burned her.

“Y/N? HELLO? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Stephanie’s voice screeched from the discarded device. Y/N scrambled to retrieve it, her voice pitching into hysterics. “H-he just texted me. What do I do? What do I DO?”

She collapsed back onto the floor, biting her fist to muffle another scream.

Y/N's phone continued to blare Stephanie's increasingly frantic voice from where it had landed face-up on the rug. She stared at it like it might explode, her entire body frozen in panic.

Jason Todd had her number.

Jason Todd had texted her.

Jason Todd was somehow already ruining her ability to function like a normal human being.

Stephanie's pixelated face twisted in exasperation on the screen. “Y/N, I swear to god if you don't pick up this phone right now—”

With trembling fingers, Y/N grabbed the device, her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her in the front camera. “Steph,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do I say?”

Stephanie opened her mouth—probably to deliver one of her famously unhinged pep talks—when Tim suddenly shouldered his way back into frame, his grin downright diabolical.

“Say yes, obviously.”

“TIM—”

“No, listen,” he barreled on, ignoring Stephanie's death grip on his arm. “Jason doesn't text people. Like, ever. Dick had to bribe him just to answer group chats. If he's reaching out first? That's basically a declaration of—”

Stephanie clamped a hand over his mouth. “What my handsome yet unburdened by intelligence boyfriend is trying to say is,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you should reply before you psych yourself out of it. Also, tim don't spout bull, she's plenty delulu as it is.”

Y/N's thumb hovered over the screen. The cursor blinked mockingly in the text box.

Unknown: So when do we start?

She swallowed hard.

This was Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd who had once flipped off an entire grandstand after a controversial penalty. The same Jason Todd whose post-race interviews were legendary for their sarcasm and barely-contained rage. The same Jason Todd who had just admitted he had no identity outside of racing—and was now asking her to help him find one.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Y/N: Depends. Are we starting with book recommendations or full-blown personality reconstruction with something more hands-on? 

The reply came almost instantly.

Jason: Never been the one to back out from a challenge. So what's it gonna be doll?

Y/N's breath hitched. She could practically hear his voice in her head, that low, teasing drawl that had made her stomach flip more than once during dinner.

“Steph,” she blurted out, turning back to her still-active video call where Stephanie and Tim were watching this unfold with rapt attention. “Suggestions. Fast. Something I can take Jason to.”

Stephanie's grin was instantaneous. “Oh, I know you're not about to drag Jason Todd into one of your hyperfixation hobbies.”

“Good idea and that I absolutely will.”

Stephanie snorted. “Well, you could take him to that artisan ceramics workshop with the old Italian nonnas you're obsessed with. Or that dance class you signed up for in Barcelona last year.”

One thing about Y/N: she happened to be on the ADHD spectrum and every Grand Prix weekend in a new country had become an opportunity to dive headfirst into a new hobby. From pottery in Italy to flamenco dancing in Spain, her restless mind latching onto anything that could provide that sweet, sweet dopamine hit. It made her the perfect person to help Jason Todd find something—anything—that wasn't racing. Collecting herself, Y/N typed back with renewed determination:

Y/N: Give me a country, and I'll tell you what we're doing.

Jason: Race in Imola in two days.

Y/N: So Italy it is.

Excitement buzzed under Y/N's skin. Imola. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And now, the backdrop for whatever this was becoming.

Across the world, in a private jet en route to Italy, Jason found himself staring at his phone with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something that wasn't a race.

Their messages continued late into the night—Y/N enthusiastically listing every obscure Italian hobby she'd tried, Jason responding with dry humor that slowly melted into genuine interest. He didn't even realize when the tension in his shoulders began to ease, when the ever-present anger that had fueled him since his return started to fade, replaced by something lighter. Something like anticipation.

In just a span of two days, his phone was filled with ridiculous stickers, mostly consisting of a concerning number of cat memes and a plan for their first “non-racing activity.” His phone buzzed again—another meme from Y/N, this time a photoshopped image of Bruce Wayne with cat ears next to an actual grumpy Persian. Jason snorted, thumb hovering over the keyboard to reply, when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Jason, can we talk?”

Cass's voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage, where mechanics buzzed around the car like worker bees. Jason slipped his phone into his pocket, though not before Cass caught a glimpse of his screen— the ridiculous meme Y/N had sent him.

“Sure, Cass. What's up?” he said, turning to face her.

Cass studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes perceptive as ever. “You've been... different.”

Jason stiffened. Different. Did that mean distracted? Unfocused? Cass was one of the few people who had never treated him like glass after the accident, never looked at him with pity. If she said he'd changed—

But then Cass's lips quirked. “You smile more.”

Jason blinked.

“And you keep checking your phone,” she added, nodding to his pocket, where another notification had just buzzed. “Whoever they are... I like them.”

Jason opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but found he didn't want to. Instead, a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,”

he admitted, pulling out his phone to see Y/N's latest message.

Y/N: Pack something you don't mind getting messy. We're starting with ceramics tomorrow.

“Me too.”

Jason stood frozen outside the unassuming ceramics studio, his boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as he double-checked the address. The building looked like something out of a postcard—sun-bleached terracotta walls draped in lush ivy, the faint scent of lemon trees mingling with the earthy aroma of clay from the open windows. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its blue door chipped with age.

He glanced at his watch—10:02 AM. He was late.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. This wasn’t a race briefing or a sponsor meeting. Just... an odd detour into unfamiliar territory.

The street was blessedly empty, tucked away in the city’s historic district where tourists rarely wandered. Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. These days, being recognized outside the paddock meant one of two things—either starstruck fans shoving phones in his face, or pitying glances from those who remembered the crash. He hated both reactions equally.

His outfit felt foreign against his skin—a lightweight linen shirt layered over his usual thin turtleneck, loose trousers instead of fireproof racing gear, boots that had never touched a garage floor. The fabric moved differently, unrestrictive in ways his racing suits never were.

Jason raised his fist and knocked twice on the weathered blue door.

The door flew open before his knuckles could make contact a third time.

“Ah! Finalmente!”

A tiny, silver-haired woman—Nonna Gianna, he presumed—grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and yanked him inside before he could protest. The studio was cooler than the sunlit street, the air thick with the mineral scent of wet clay and something herbal—maybe thyme or rosemary from the small kitchen in the back.

“You are il ragazzo who knows nothing, sì?” Gianna declared, her dark eyes scanning him with the same intensity engineers used when inspecting a damaged chassis.

Jason opened his mouth to argue—he’d mastered the most complex racing circuits in the world, surely he could handle some clay—but she was already dragging him past shelves of glazed pottery, their surfaces catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

The back room was bathed in golden sunlight from the open roof and thin shades, the hum of a spinning pottery wheel filling the air. And there—

Y/N sat at the wheel, her hands buried in a mound of wet clay that spun hypnotically under her fingers. She’d traded her usual paddock attire for a linen shirt that matched his own—though hers was already streaked with earthy smudges—her hair tied back with a vibrant scarf. And a smudge of clay decorated her cheek.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” she quipped without looking up, her voice laced with amusement.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown by the quip and the sight of her—so at ease here, so different from the polished presenter or the drunk socialite he saw earlier. But before he could respond, Gianna shoved him toward the empty wheel beside Y/N’s.

“Bello ma stupido,” the old woman muttered, patting his bicep approvingly before grabbing his hands to inspect them. “Strong hands,” she announced, turning them palm-up like a fortune teller. “Good for clay.” Her smile was slightly unnerving—the kind usually reserved for fresh meat in a lion’s den.

Jason, who had faced down the most intimidating team principals and aggressive reporters without flinching, felt an odd prickle of nerves under her scrutiny. “I’ll... try my best?”

Gianna snorted and slapped a wet lump of clay onto his wheel with a decisive thwap. “Non provare. Do it.”

For the next two hours, Jason Todd—three-time world champion, master of precision—was thoroughly humbled by a lump of wet earth.

His first attempt collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. His second wobbled violently before spiraling off-center. His third attempt earned him a sharp rap on the knuckles with Gianna’s wooden spoon when he gripped the clay too tightly.

“Troppa forza!” she scolded. “Clay is not enemy! You fight it, it fights back.”

Y/N muffled a laugh into her shoulder, her own wheel producing something suspiciously vase-shaped. “She’s right, you know,” she said, pushing back a stray strand from her forehead with her wrist. “It’s about listening, not controlling.”

Jason glared at his latest failed attempt, the clay stubbornly refusing to obey him the way his car always did. “I’m used to things responding immediately when I tell them what to do.”

Y/N’s grin was downright wicked. “Welcome to the real world, hotshot.”

He flicked a bit of clay at her. She gasped in mock outrage and retaliated by smearing a streak across his cheek, her fingers lingering just a second too long. Gianna threw her hands up and muttered something in rapid Italian before stomping off.

By the session’s end, his shirt was thoroughly ruined, patience exhausted and—against all odds—he’d somehow produced something vaguely cup-shaped.

“Non male,” Gianna conceded, examining his lopsided creation with a critical eye. “For first try.” She turned to Y/N and said something that made the younger woman nearly drop her perfectly formed vase.

Jason wiped his clay-caked hands on a towel. “What’d she say?”

Y/N refused to meet his eyes. “Nothing important.”

The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows as Gianna’s cackling faded into the distance, leaving Jason and Y/N alone at their worktable. Jason found his gaze tracing the details of Y/N’s profile—the way her nose scrunched in concentration when examining their pottery, the smudge of clay drying along her collarbone that she’d missed when cleaning up. He noticed how her shoulders curved slightly forward when focused, the golden chain around her neck catching the light with each movement. A glimpse of ink at the base of her neck peeked through her hair—some tattoo he couldn’t quite make out, its meaning hidden just like so much about her still remained unknown to him.

It struck him then how rarely he noticed these small things about people. In the paddock, he saw drivers as competitors, engineers as problem-solvers, journalists as obstacles to navigate. But Y/N—he was seeing her in fragments, piece by unexpected piece, and each discovery left him strangely curious for more.

As Y/N carefully carried their creations to the kiln, Jason wiped his clay-streaked hands on a towel. The studio’s elderly owner reappeared at his side, moving with surprising stealth for someone who’d just been cackling moments before.

“Tu e Y/N,” Gianna began, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Da quanto tempo vi frequentate?”

Jason blinked. “Pardon? Uh, signora um... non parlo italiano.”

Gianna’s wrinkled face scrunched in concentration as she searched for the right English words, then gave up with an exasperated wave of her hands. Instead, she brought her pinched fingers together in the universal sign for kissing.

Jason’s eyes widened comically. “No, no, me and Y/N—not like that,” he protested, waving his hands in denial.

“Non?” Gianna looked genuinely surprised. “Ma l’ultima volta che l’ho vista eri nello sfondo del suo telefono.”

Jason stared blankly, the rapid Italian washing over him without comprehension. Before he could respond, Y/N returned, immediately picking up on the tension.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head at Jason’s bewildered expression.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jason muttered, suddenly finding the clay remnants on the table fascinating.

Gianna said something rapid-fire to Y/N, who laughed and shook her head before turning back to Jason. “She said we can fix ourselves a meal in her kitchen if we want while the pots bake. What do you say?”

Jason automatically shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to strictly watch what I eat.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Jay, look. It’s two weeks before the next race. One sandwich won’t destroy you.” She clasped her hands together in mock pleading. “And Gianna makes her own cheese! With goat milk from her nephew’s farm. Pretty please?”

The way she said it—the exaggerated pout, the way her eyes sparkled with challenge, the way she said his name—stirred something in Jason. He’d spent years following nutrition plans to the gram, never deviating, never indulging. But standing there, with clay under his nails and Y/N looking at him like that, the strict rules he’d lived by suddenly felt less important.

“Fine,” he conceded, holding up a warning finger. “One sandwich.”

Y/N’s triumphant grin was worth whatever lecture his nutritionist would give him later. As Gianna led them toward the small kitchen in the back, chattering away in Italian, Jason realized with startling clarity that for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about macros or race weight.

He was simply... enjoying himself.

The small kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the earthy scent of baking bread and the sharp tang of fresh herbs. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the worn wooden counter where Y/N stood, her hands deftly slicing into a crusty loaf of sourdough. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the comfortable silence between them.

Jason leaned against the counter nearby, watching as she worked. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—practical yet graceful, her fingers sure and steady as she portioned the bread. The quiet domesticity of the moment felt foreign to him, like stepping into a scene from a life he’d never allowed himself to imagine.

Then Y/N glanced up, her eyes flickering briefly to the high collar of his turtleneck before meeting his gaze.

“I respect people’s fashion choices and all,” she began, her tone light but curious, “but if you don’t mind me asking... why the turtleneck?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He’d been asked it before—by reporters, by fans, even by well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject of his scars. But coming from Y/N, it felt different. There was no pity in her voice, no morbid fascination. Just simple, straightforward curiosity.

Jason hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve. He could deflect, could make a joke and steer the conversation elsewhere. But something about the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the way Y/N waited without pressing, made the truth feel less like a burden and more like just another part of himself.

“After the crash,” he started, his voice quieter than he intended, “people tend to... stare.” He shrugged, as if that explained it all. And in a way, it did. The scars were a map of his worst moment, etched permanently into his skin. A reminder he carried everywhere, whether he wanted to or not.

He realized how somber his words sounded and quickly tried to lighten the mood. “And even then, I wouldn’t wanna scare you with ‘em. It’s ugly stuff.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to the bread, her knife moving steadily. But just as Jason thought she’d let the subject drop, she murmured, so softly he almost missed it:

“Not to me, it’s not.”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate as the dust motes floating in the sunlight. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly—if he’d imagined the quiet sincerity in her voice. But before he could question it, Y/N looked up again, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual ease.

“Hey, can you wash the cherry tomatoes, please?”

Jason nodded, pushing away from the counter to comply. As he turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over the vibrant red tomatoes, he became acutely aware of the quiet sounds filling the kitchen—the splash of water, the rustle of Y/N gathering herbs, and beneath it all, the soft, absentminded hum escaping her lips.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the way she let it drift in and out of her thoughts, barely aware she was doing it, struck something deep in his chest. It reminded him of his mother—how she would hum old lullabies while cooking, the sound wrapping around him like a comfort as he sat on the countertop, swinging his legs and waiting for dinner. It reminded him, too, of Alfred—the Wayne family’s butler—patiently teaching him how to prep vegetables, his dry wit hiding a warmth Jason had taken for granted in his youth.

He hadn’t thought about those moments in years. Hadn’t let himself.

The water ran over his fingers, the tomatoes glistening like little gems in his palms. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the simmering anger that had fueled him since the crash—the bitterness, the relentless drive to prove he was still the same, still unbeatable—felt distant. Fading, like an old wound finally beginning to heal.

And standing there, in a kitchen with the scent of fresh bread in the air and Y/N’s quiet humming weaving through the space between them, Jason realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy.

Not the fleeting rush of a podium finish, not the hollow satisfaction of proving his critics wrong. Just... happy.

Y/N perched on the edge of the worn wooden counter, her legs swinging idly as she took another enthusiastic bite of her sandwich. Crumbs tumbled onto the plate below, but she paid them no mind, too absorbed in savoring the flavors—the rich creaminess of Gianna’s homemade goat cheese, the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crunch of freshly baked sourdough.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering halfway to his lips. His expression was distant, conflicted, as if caught in some internal debate. The voices of his past—his coaches, his nutritionists, even his own relentless drive—whispered warnings in his mind. This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t what champions do.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. His fingers gripped the bread just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles pale with tension. The voices in his head were louder than the cheerful clatter of the kitchen—his old trainer’s stern warnings about maintaining race weight, the nutritionist’s rigid meal plans, the unspoken expectations of a champion who couldn’t afford to slip, not even for a moment.

Was this weakness? The thought slithered through his mind. Was he throwing away years of discipline, all the sacrifices he’d made—the early mornings, the grueling workouts, the endless self-denial—for something as trivial as a sandwich?

“Is there something wrong?”

Y/N’s voice cut through his spiral, her brow furrowing as she studied him. The concern in her eyes was genuine, untainted by the judgment he’d come to expect from the racing world.

Jason shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to answer her. Then, before he could overthink it further, he took a bite.

The flavors exploded across his tongue—sharp, tangy cheese mellowed by the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, all anchored by the nutty depth of freshly baked bread. It was simple. It was perfect. And for the first time in years, Jason actually tasted his food.

His so-called “cheat meals” had always been at Michelin-starred restaurants—obligatory team dinners or sponsor events where the food was secondary to the politics. He’d long since trained himself to ignore the delicate dishes placed before him. The flavors had become irrelevant, just another sacrifice in the pursuit of perfection.

But here, in this tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains, with Y/N swinging her feet like a child and Gianna humming off-key in the corner, the weight of expectation lifted. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason was present—truly present—in a moment that had nothing to do with racing.

“Want one more?” Y/N asked, already reaching for the bread.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yes I do.”

The words felt like a revelation.

Between races, in stolen days across different time zones, he found himself dragged into what Y/N affectionately called their “hobby hunts”— whirlwind excursions into the mundane wonders of each Grand Prix host country. In Italy, he’d learned the meditative art of pasta-making from a Nonna who smacked him whenever he kneaded the dough too aggressively. He’d reluctantly tried watercolor painting, only to discover an unexpected satisfaction in the way colors bled across the paper.

And now, in Venice after the triple header, Y/N was determined to subject him to what he firmly believed was the most ridiculous “hobby” yet.

“Mask-making is not a real hobby,” Jason declared, arms crossed as they stood outside a tiny workshop in Dorsoduro, its windows filled with elaborate papier-mâché creations. Y/N’s expression shifted instantly—her usual playful smirk dissolving into something far more serious. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that gave Jason pause.

“Tell that to Guillermo,” she said quietly, “who spent thirty years perfecting this ‘hobby’ of his. After he lost his job and his son stopped speaking to him, it was the masks that kept a roof over his and his wife’s heads.”

The raw sincerity in her words hit Jason like a missed braking point. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the careless privilege in his dismissal.

“I—” He swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment before her face lit up with sudden mischief. “So that means you’ll give it a go?” The whiplash-inducing shift in tone left Jason blinking. “...What?”

“You promised,” she singsonged, bouncing on her heels with renewed energy. Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. Jason’s jaw dropped. “You made that up?”

“Every word,” Y/N confirmed cheerfully. “And no takesies-backsies. You already agreed.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an evil little thing, you know that?”

“But you love it,” she teased, already pushing open the workshop door.

The protest died on Jason’s lips. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

The crisp Canadian air carried a bite that was absent in the Mediterranean warmth they’d left behind. The empty rink stretched before them, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights, freshly smoothed by the zamboni. Jason exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air as he stepped onto the ice, the blades of his skates cutting effortlessly into the pristine surface.

He hadn’t expected this. When Y/N had mentioned renting out an entire rink as a thank-you for flying her to Montreal in his private jet, he’d assumed she was joking. But here they were, the only two people in the arena, the silence broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional scrape of steel against ice.

It was… thoughtful. Unnervingly so. Y/N had a way of anticipating what he wanted before he even voiced it—like she understood that, despite his love for the roars of the grandstands on track, he craved these quiet moments away from prying eyes and cameras.

As a high-performance athlete, Jason found his balance almost immediately. The muscle memory from years of rigorous training translated seamlessly to the ice, and within minutes, he was gliding across the rink with the same natural ease he carried on the racetrack.

Y/N, however, was another story entirely.

She clung to the boards like her life depended on it, her usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed terror as her skates betrayed her at every turn. Jason watched, amused, as she attempted to push off—only to immediately pitch forward with a yelp, arms flailing wildly before she somehow managed to right herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him as he executed a lazy backward crossover right in front of her.

Jason smirked. “You’re the one who picked this hobby, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t realize you’d turn out to be some figure-skating prodigy,” she shot back in an attempt to gain back some of her dignity, gingerly releasing the railing—and immediately regretting it as her feet slid out from under her.

Jason darted forward, catching her by the waist before she could faceplant onto the ice. “You’re hopeless, I swear,” he laughed, steadying her as she wobbled like a newborn fawn.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or the cold, he couldn’t tell. “I’m great at plenty of other things!” she grumbled, attempting to shake him off.

“Oh, I believe you,” Jason said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But skating isn’t one of them.”

As she wobbled dangerously again, his arm shot out to steady her. “Careful, doll. Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

She muttered something decidedly unflattering under her breath, but the effect was ruined by the way her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

Jason held out his hand. “Alright, baby steps. Take my hand.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at his outstretched palm like it was a trap. On one side: this was Jason Todd, the man whose posters had adorned her teenage walls, whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion— offering to teach her something for once. It should’ve been a dream come true. But letting him witness her utter lack of coordination was humiliating enough and accepting his help felt like surrendering the little dignity she had left. Especially considering how insufferably smug he looked seeing her struggle.

For a brief, stubborn moment, she considered refusing. But the ice was unforgiving, her pride bruised but definitely not worth a broken tailbone and his hand looked awfully steady. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. Perhaps this was karma from the pottery class.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she warned.

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

The scrape of blades against ice filled the quiet rink as Jason guided Y/N in slow, careful circles. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grip - whether from the cold or the unfamiliar intimacy, he couldn’t tell.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Jason chided gently. “Look at me instead. It helps with balance.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, meeting his with a mixture of irritation and reluctant trust. The moment their gazes locked, her posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“See? You’re getting it,” he murmured, unable to resist a small, genuine smile.

“I’m literally just standing here while you do all the work,” Y/N grumbled.

Jason chuckled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before slowly releasing it. “Alright, try on your own. Just remember - knees bent, weight forward.”

For a glorious three seconds, Y/N glided unaided, her face lighting up with triumph. Then physics intervened. Her arms became frantic windmills, her balance abandoning her in an instant. Jason saw the exact moment panic flooded her wide eyes—the dilation of pupils, the part of lips ready to yelp—before his body moved on instinct honed from years of split-second reactions.

One strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from them both. His other hand slapped against the boards to arrest their momentum, the impact vibrating up his arm. But all Jason registered was the feel of Y/N pressed along his entire side—the warmth of her even through layers of clothing, the way her racing heartbeat thudded against his ribs in perfect sync with his own runaway pulse.

Jason had always known Y/N was attractive. Objectively. The way one might note a well-composed photograph or an elegant car design. As a presenter, she fit the expected mold of paddock beauty—polished, camera-ready, the kind of woman sponsors loved to position near their drivers for photo ops.

But this... this was different.

In his years as a champion, Jason had been paraded before countless models and starlets, had endured awkward PR “dates” arranged by the team, had smiled for cameras with women whose names he barely remembered. None of them had ever made him notice how the arena lights caught gold flecks in their eyes. None had hands that fit so perfectly in his, as if engineered by some higher power just for this moment. No one’s cheeks had ever flushed such an enticing pink from cold and exertion, nor had their lips—currently parted in surprise and glistening with whatever gloss she’d applied that morning—ever seemed so impossibly, distractingly soft.

And the scent of her—citrus and something sweet beneath the cold air—wrapped around him more completely than any embrace.

“Maybe... maybe we should call it a night,” Y/N whispered, her breath puffing warm against his neck.

The words were a surrender, but her body told a different story—the way she hadn’t pulled away, how her fingers had fisted in the front of his jacket as if to anchor herself.

Jason blinked, suddenly aware he’d been cataloging her features with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He cleared his throat, carefully putting space between them while keeping a steadying hand at her elbow. The air from the refridgeration systems rushed in to fill the void she left, chilling him instantly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, voice rougher than intended. He busied himself with adjusting his gloves, avoiding her gaze. “We can, uh... try again another time.”

The words tasted like a lie. Because what Jason really wanted was to pull her close again, to see if her hair really was as soft as it looked, to discover if her lips tasted as sweet as that damned gloss promised. But that way lay madness—or at the very least, a complication neither of them needed.

In the weeks that followed, something undeniable shifted in Jason Todd’s racing—a transformation that didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp analysts and devoted fans who tracked his every lap. The reckless, almost desperate aggression that had once defined his driving—the “madman” style commentators loved to dramatize—had mellowed into something far more dangerous.

His moves were calculated now, his overtakes executed with surgical patience rather than brute force. Where he once would have forced a risky gap, he now waited, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. The result? A steady climb up the championship order that left his rivals scrambling to adjust their strategies.

“What the hell’s gotten into Todd?” became the paddock’s favorite question.

Only Jason knew the answer.

In the quiet hours between races, when the roar of engines faded to memory and the paddock emptied of its usual chaos, Jason found himself reaching for the books Y/N had slipped into his life like secret treasures. Each volume carried her fingerprints—literally, in the smudges on the pages where she’d gripped them too tightly during thrilling passages, and metaphorically, in the notes she’d scribbled in the margins with her characteristic wit and insight.

“While finding new hobbies, it’s important not to lose the old ones,” she’d told him with that knowing smile of hers, pressing another book into his hands after their delightful attempt at Venetian mask-making.

He’d taken her words to heart in a way that surprised even himself. The books became his companions on long flights between races, their pages a refuge when the weight of expectation grew too heavy. He raced through them not just for the stories they held, but for the promise of her next recommendation—the quiet thrill of her commentary when he texted her his thoughts at 2 AM after finishing one. 

What he didn’t tell her—what he couldn’t bring himself to admit—was that he’d commissioned a custom sandalwood bookshelf for his bedroom, its rich grain polished to a warm glow. It stood as a shrine to something that was uniquely theirs’s: the slightly lopsided cup that he made at Nonna Gianna’s, a beer mug from their trappist brewing adventure in Belgium, the framed photo of them covered in cheese curds in Austria, the pressed wildflowers from their trek across the Scottish highlands after his P1 finish in Silverstone. The one that brought him back in contention for the World Championship. It felt like he was building something more than just a collection.

It felt like proof.

Proof that there was a Jason Todd beyond the racetrack. Proof that he could be more than the sum of his scars and his victories.

And it was all because of her.

His phone was a dangerous thing these days.

The gallery, once filled with nothing but race data and engineering schematics, now held a growing album of stolen moments—candid shots of Y/N laughing at a joke he hadn’t meant to be funny, her nose scrunched in that way he’d come to adore. Screenshots of her social media posts and presenter segments saved before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pathetic, really.

World champion. Three-time title holder. And yet here he was, lurking on her Instagram like some lovestruck fan, his stomach twisting every time she posted something new.

Most of her older posts were about him—race photos, blurry grandstand shots, captions filled with exclamation points and heart emojis. The realization should have been flattering. Instead, it left him unsettled.

Did she still see him that way? As some untouchable idol, a fantasy to be admired from afar?

Or could she want the man behind the helmet—the one who woke up sweating from nightmares, who still caught himself holding his breath when tire smoke curled too thick on race day?

Then there was Danny.

A single photo, buried deep in her feed like a landmine. Y/N pressing a kiss to some grinning bastard’s cheek, her caption cheerful and simple: Happy birthday, loser.

Jason knew Danny. Knew him in the way you only know someone who’s shared both your childhood dreams and their dissolution. They’d started karting together, two scrappy kids with more talent than sense, pushing each other until their tires wore bald and their wrists ached from steering. Danny had been one of the few who could match him turn for turn, whose laughter rang just as loud when they tumbled into the grass after some reckless, glorious overtake.

Jason had assumed they’d climb the ranks together, side by side. But life had other plans—Danny’s family couldn’t sustain the financial hemorrhage of competitive karting and pragmatism won out over passion. While Jason raced forward, Danny stepped back, trading the driver’s seat for textbooks, determined to stay close to the sport in whatever way he could. He still remembered the hollow look in his friend’s eyes the day he packed up his helmet— “Engineering school,”  he’d muttered, “like the old man wants.”  Jason had fought to keep him close, badgering Bruce until Wayne Racing took Danny on as a junior mechanic. They weren’t the brothers-in-arms they’d once been, but the bond remained, worn comfortable with time.

But his closeness to Y/N bothered him. Jason stared until the pixels blurred. He could ask her. Three words —“Who is Danny?” —and he’d have his answer. Who was he to her? A friend? An ex? Worse—a current? 

But the thought of hearing the answer—of watching her face shift in that way when someone mentions a name that matters—left him cold.

Better not to know. Better to—

His phone buzzed, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen like she’d somehow sensed his spiral.

Y/N: It’s a shame the race in Zandvoort is so late. You should see the tulips they have in April.

Jason exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he typed back without thinking.

Jason: Yeah well. Next year I’ll take you.

The reply came instantly.

Y/N: Bet. Though the beach there is pretty cool too. The water’s cold this time of year but still warmer than your ice tubs :P And then there are the museums too—a history buff like you would appreciate them.

Jason smiled despite himself, imagining her rolling her eyes as she typed.

Jason: I’ll go wherever the lady takes me.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he’d intended. For a long moment, the typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, until finally—

Y/N: Careful, Todd. That almost sounded like a promise. 

“Jason, what do you think?” Bruce’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the boardroom. He was seated at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by executives in tailored suits and their managers poised with styluses over tablets.

Jason blinked, startled. His head snapped up from the phone in his lap, only to find nearly a dozen eyes trained on him. He straightened in his seat, his screen going dark as he shoved the device into his blazer pocket. Of course, he had zoned out—texting during a sponsor meeting was probably frowned upon, but truthfully, Jason didn’t give a damn.

The Wayne Formula One team hardly needed financial backing. Bruce’s wealth alone could fund a fleet of cars and pit crews for the next decade. But apparently, having glossy logos of luxury brands and legacy sponsors plastered across the chassis was “strategic”—whatever that meant. Optics over necessity. It was all part of the game.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… cool, I guess,” Jason mumbled, shrugging one shoulder with disinterest.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. But without missing a beat, he turned back to the others and carried on with the presentation.

As the meeting ended and people began shuffling out with polite handshakes and promises to circle back via email, Dick approached him with a concerned look, pulling him gently aside into a quieter corner of the lounge just outside the boardroom.

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii

A/n: Ughhhhhh this is what I get for trying to cram what should be a multi-chapter fic into a single one-shot. Tumblr said "bitch i think the fuck not" and slapped a only-1000-blocks-allowed-per-post on my dreams 😭😭😭Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long😔😔 (Tumblr, I beg you—just let me post my novel-length emotional support in peace.) Feel free to send more requests for the event.

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[maxarchive]

WHY IS VERSTAPPEN SO STRONG

His pole last Saturday and victory the following day in Suzuka impressed the paddock. L'Équipe interviewed some of F1's biggest names to try and understand the Red Bull driver's success. PIERRE WACHÉ: Max has the ability to control the car in combination, which means he can manage braking and cornering. He can, better than the others, sense the car's rear-end potential and, more importantly, control it even in transitions. His technical feedback is obviously useful, but I don't think it's the most important thing. Since he has a greater ability to control the car, he doesn't have the same feedback as the others. I would say he's more sensitive, which means the car can be optimized for this greater sensitivity. He doesn't have any specific requirements, but his limits aren't the same as the others. He just demands more in terms of constraints because he has a greater ability to control the car. NICO ROSBERG: Max is already blessed with above-average natural talent. It's no coincidence that Hamilton and Schumacher are the only ones left in front of him, and he's sure to join them. But for me, what makes the difference is his ability to believe in himself. All drivers have this confidence. He has it in spades, and as he never makes a mistake, it's even more ingrained in him. Nothing challenges what he tries. He's always on the edge, sometimes on the verge of a crash, but it doesn't come, because he knows what he can do. JACQUES VILLENEUVE: People are mistaken when they think Max doesn't work. He does, he does it a lot, and he does it the old-fashioned way. For him, data isn't the essence of performance. He prefers people, and when you see the way his mechanics surround him, you understand that they appreciate this old-fashioned way of working. A bit like his father. ALAIN PROST: Max has developed this unique passion for racing. He is different from other drivers in that you don't see him doing anything else. When he's not in his car, he's in his simulator; and if he's not in either, he'll be at the factory preparing for the next GP. This commitment is definitely paying off. The team he joined in 2016 has become "his" team. He built it around him and it's shaped for him. As he wins, everyone gains confidence and seeks even greater success for him, who isn't distracted by anything other than motor racing, which is clearly all he enjoys. DAMON HILL: Max was built by and for racing. The enormous natural talent he was born with needed to be educated, mentored, and supported. To reach the level of excellence he currently enjoys, he needed someone to understand him, to teach him the level of commitment required to excel in Formula 1. His father, having been there before him and having worked closely with Michael Schumacher, helped him to develop. MARTIN BRUNDLE: Just like Senna, who quickly taught all the other drivers that he could be aggressive when overtaking, Max showed from the start that you have to watch out for him. He's tough, not mean, but everyone knows his aggression; he doesn't give anyone a chance. When he overtakes, or when you try to overtake him, every driver knows what they're risking. Max managed to impress upon them that it's up to them whether they continue the race or stop him in that corner, because the next corner is his, not yours.

[katebishopsbow]

MISSING PIECE • F1 GRID

pairing: f1 grid x driver!reader (platonic)

summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of abusive parent, found family

word count: 3k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Formula 1 journalists have always been known to be brutal – asking questions that teetered on the brink of privacy violation and unnecessarily hostile probing with the excuse of “providing insightful coverage” on the highly competitive sport.

That was why media training existed – to prepare drivers for the harshest, most demanding questions thrown at them and rewire their brains such that instead of lashing out, they would be able to gracefully divert the focus to something else while also preserving their pristine image.

You had always excelled at handling the media, and your ability to constantly remain level-headed even when they asked the most ridiculous of questions was something you took pride in – until a journalist purposefully asked about a subject you had desperately tried to avoid ever since your F1 career started.

The relationship you and your father had was rather difficult to explain. The two of you became distant since the day your parents divorced and you decided to walk away from his constant emotional unavailability and manipulation he so skillfully disguised as paternal love. He didn’t bother asking you to stay – well, he never bothered doing anything when it came to you. He called occasionally, only when he needed something from you and your mother, and sent birthday cards out of obligation a month late because god forbid he remembered your birthday if your mother hadn’t reminded him.

Then the calls became less frequent, and then they stopped altogether, and his empty promises of visiting became blatant lies that you no longer believed in. Your father gradually turned into a stranger, a missing piece, a clouded memory left behind in the childhood days of your life.

It was a hard subject for you to talk about, something you would much rather keep away from the limelight and scrutiny of the world. Unfortunately for you, secrets weren’t really a thing in F1, and the obvious absence of one of your parents on the grid and in all your victory celebrations had been noticed by the public’s watchful eyes.

So your secret was no longer a secret. All the drivers on the grid were aware of it, and a few closest to you had known the full truth of your strained relationship with your father, but they all avoided mentioning it as they knew it was a family matter you wanted to remain private. Most journalists were also respectful enough to avoid asking insensitive questions when interviewing you, phrasing their words like “How will you celebrate the win with your family?” instead of using the term “parents”, and you were more than appreciative of that.

So when the voice of a certain reporter who was known to be ruthless with his questioning echoed through the press conference, directing the uncomfortable and out-of-the-blue question toward you, you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.

“Rumors have been circulating the Internet recently about you and your father. There are accusations against you claiming that you were ‘selfish’ and ‘ungrateful’ for cutting off ties with your parent, that a callous and unforgiving person such as yourself does not deserve a seat or to be the inspiration for young minds. What are your comments on such claims, and have you ever experienced regret for turning your back on your family – your very own flesh and blood?”

The sudden silence in the room was suffocating, and the only sound you could hear was the heartbeat that was drumming loudly in your ears as the colour drained from your face. The discussion revolving around your relationship with your father wasn’t anything you were unfamiliar with, but to hear it being brought up so directly in front of the press and all your fellow drivers, and all the demeaning names that people had called you – it had felt so demoralizing.

What happened between you and your dad was entirely private, people outside of your family who had never gone through what you had experienced should never have the right to make comments on your decision to leave. They didn’t know what it was like to have a father who was never there, who constantly let you down with his lies and broken promises, who subjected all his volatile temper and toxic outbursts to his daughter and wife.

You had enough of his bullshit and were simply sick of pretending to be the perfect little family, so you left with your mother and told yourself that you would never look back. It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t miss the presence of your dad every now and then – the palpable emptiness he left behind had and would continue to haunt you – but you also never once regretted your decision.

“I – I don’t think… these accusations… umm –” The composure you had always displayed in front of the media was long gone, and you struggled to find the right words to say in response to such an uncomfortable question. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixated on you while that journalist watched you with an inspective expression on his face, just waiting for the moment when you break – wanting you to lose control so that he could have the reaction he needed to write his article.

And all of a sudden, you were back in your childhood home, standing in the living room with your head hung low, fighting back tears as your father unleashed his wrath at you over the smallest, most trivial things. “What’re you crying for, huh? You want me to give you something to cry about?” he would say to you, his voice harsh and venomous as he screamed out insults that scarred your fragile little heart.

Then you were back in your grade school classroom, standing in front of the whole class and staying completely silent after your teacher assigned you the speech topic “My dad is my hero”. Your classmates looked at you as if you had grown a second head, confused by the way you were struggling to speak about a topic they could so easily blabber on for hours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything – your dad was never your hero, he was a distant stranger who struck fear within you whenever he was around.

Then you were back in the bedroom at your new home, reading the birthday card that your dad had sent to you a month late. Written in the top left corner of the page was a scribble of your name, completely misspelled. You closed the card with tears brimming in your eyes, knowing that your existence was slowly beginning to fade from your father’s memories. You tried to remember what his voice sounded like, his calloused hands, his boisterous laughter on the rare days when he wasn’t screaming profanities at you and your mother, and then you realized that he was beginning to fade from yours, and it had felt so, so painful.

Blinking away the hectic memories, you were quickly dragged back to the reality of the press conference. Everyone was still waiting for your response, and the reporter continued to wait for you to crumble under pressure, but all you wanted to do was to run out of the room and hide from people’s blazing eyes, to not have the world criticize you on how you dealt with your family trauma.

“I think that is an absolutely unprofessional question to ask if I am being honest.” Max’s stern voice finally broke the silence, and you were still attempting to process the situation when he continued to chastise the overstepping journalist with an irritated scowl, “The focus of the press conference is to discuss the races and the drivers’ performances on the track, not to delve into people’s personal matter and bring up their family situations which clearly do not have any relevance to the sport.”

The Dutch driver had always been brutally honest, never afraid to speak his mind and call out the press for their bullshit, and this was no exception. Having a complicated relationship with his father himself, he knew the hardships of being in your situation and struggling with toxic family dynamics, and he experienced first-hand how the media loved exploiting such issues for the sake of a story. More importantly, you were his friend, and he would do anything to defend you.

You exchanged thankful glances with the driver next to you, feeling the warmth that blossomed over your heart when Max placed his hand over your trembling ones beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze in a way that meant “Don’t worry. I got your back”.

Upon hearing what Max had to say, the reporter was quick to defend himself. “I was merely hoping to get some insights on whether or not the recent rumors had affected her performance on the track. That’s all,” he attempted to reason, trying to rationalize his intrusive question but was interrupted by another driver who frankly also had enough.

“I think everybody in this room is well aware that is not your intention,” Charles spoke up from his seat, staring at the lying journalist with a tight-lipped smile that was far from friendly. Being one of your closest friends on the grid, Charles was also no stranger to your father’s abusive tendencies and knew how tough it was for you to open up to him about such horrible memories. To see the press tried to take advantage of your vulnerability and blatantly lie about their ill intention sickened him, and he was not going to just sit and watch it happen.

The McLaren driver sitting beside him nodded as he let out a light chuckle, “Yeah I mean – I’m literally an idiot at reading the room but even I can tell that getting racing insights was not your only intention, mate.” The audacity some of these journalists and reporters had was astounding, thinking they could get away with asking disrespectful questions just because of their job titles. When it came to snapping back at their baleful antics, Lando did it once on camera with his iconic “Who are you?” and he would certainly do it again.

Carlos couldn’t help but smirk at Lando's cleverness – masking his reproval at the journalist with a self-deprecating joke. When his attention landed on the audience seated before him, he allowed himself to enjoy the caught-off-guard look on the journalist's now reddened face. “Serves him right for asking stupid questions,” Carlos muttered in a hushed voice just loud enough for himself to hear before turning his head to catch your eyes, shooting you a quick smile as a sign of support. You returned the kind gesture, thankful that your friends were standing by your side when you needed help.

As the journalist busied himself with trying to recollect his composure, an awkward silence hung upon the room once again. That was when Daniel perked up from his seat, the usual cheerful smile on his face as he proceeded to do what he did best – easing the tense atmosphere and diffusing the tension with a touch of humour. “Well, I can totally affirm that Lando can be an idiot sometimes,” he joked while grinning mischievously at the papaya driver, and the mood in the room visibly lightened as a few reporters laughed at his playful words.

“But on a more serious note though, I do believe it’s important to remember that drivers are also human beings, and we all have our own struggles and difficulties both on and off track. It’s crucial to respect drivers’ boundaries and not exploit their personal struggles, and our sole focus should always be on the sport and racing,” Daniel voiced out respectfully, emphasizing the one thing that people always seemed to forget – that drivers deserved privacy and owed nobody any explanations on their personal lives, even if they lived under the spotlight.

Oscar and Pierre who were seated at the further end of the table also nodded at Daniel’s resonating words, expressing their agreement on the importance of maintaining a respectful and uplifting environment for all drivers. “What are your thoughts, y/n?” A female reporter in the crowd raised the question, subtly giving you an encouraging smile as she steered the attention back to you, offering you the chance to speak your truth and address the situation directly.

The fear and dread within you slowly dissipated, replacing them was the heartwarming gratitude at your fellow drivers who showed no hesitation in defending you in the face of intrusive questioning. It was then that you realized you were never alone in this journey, that the other drivers on the grid were not only your competitors but your family who understood what you had gone through and would unconditionally have your back.

It was their reassuring glances, their wholehearted support, and their willingness to stand up for you that enveloped you with the strength and courage needed to finally speak up for yourself. “I would like to start off by thanking all the drivers here with me, and thank you to the journalist for that rather personal question,” you spoke clearly at your microphone, your voice emboldened by the newly found determination as you watched the journalist shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“While I do appreciate the public’s concern regarding my family issues, I would prefer to keep my personal life private. The decision to distance myself from my father to prioritize my well-being and emotional health is not something I regret doing, and it is not fair for people outside my family who don’t understand the complexities of our relationship to make assumptions on the matter.”

Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, you made the closing remarks to your statement, “Which is why I kindly ask for your understanding and space moving forward, to respect the privacy of not only me but everybody on the grid and allow us to deal with our personal matter privately, and ultimately create a respectful community within Formula 1.”

You looked around the room when you had finally finished speaking, meeting the eyes of your fellow drivers and the rows of reporters sitting before you. Your hands were still shaking from the nerves that pulsated through you, but a firm squeeze of Max’s hand pulled you back to the present before you could begin spiraling. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with a gentle smile.

The media training sessions had come in handy once again, and you managed to address the situation in a graceful manner without revealing more details than you were comfortable sharing while also highlighting the importance of personal boundaries in the world of motorsports. “Thank you, y/n,” the previous female reporter nodded at you with a proud smile, glad that you put those unprofessional reporters who had no sense of boundaries back in their place.

Among the sea of cameras and eager reporters who could so easily expose the vulnerabilities of the drivers with a simple flick of their pens, some suddenly found themselves becoming the subject of such exposure, called out for their prying questions and insatiable need to twist people’s words for a click-worthy story.

It was evident that what you and the other drivers said had struck something within them as they silently began reflecting on their roles and responsibilities as reporters, and perhaps remembering the reason why they had chosen journalism in the first place – to report the factual truth to the public, or to fabricate things in exchange for views and attention?

The press conference proceeded to continue, but the shift in the atmosphere was apparent when journalists asked their questions with more sensitivity and introspection, mentioning topics that genuinely mattered instead of blindly chasing exclusive headlines. When the conference finally ended, you and all the drivers collectively exuded a breath of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off your shoulders now that the far-from-enjoyable media day was over.

As you exited the room and were away from the cameras and people, you turned around and gave your friends an appreciative smile. “Thank you all… for standing up for me.” You must have sounded like you were close to tears because Daniel began cooing at you teasingly as if he were comforting a crying child, “Aww… don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

Charles leaned forward to ruffle your hair almost like what an older brother would, and he said to you tenderly, “We’re a team, and we’ll always have your back.” You were not going to cry initially, but now you weren’t so sure. At that moment, you had felt so loved, so supported, and it made you want to hide under the covers and bawl your eyes out from the rush of emotions that crashed over you.

Your friends, understanding the depths of your emotions, gathered around to offer you their words of encouragement and gentle pats on your back. “I love you guys, really…” you whispered quietly, looking at them with such sincerity and gratitude. How lucky were you to be able to have these people as your competitors, your friends, your found family?

“Who wants to go and eat because I’m actually starving,” Lando exclaimed as he began walking in the direction of the restaurants, and a few of the drivers tailed behind him as they joined in on the rant about how hungry they were. You watched them with an overwhelming sense of fondness, and when Max reached out his hand for you to take, you gladly accepted it.

Listening to the light-hearted banter and laughs that filled the air with your best friend right next to you, you knew that this was exactly where you belonged. Not in the tiny living room with your father screaming at you, not in the classroom with the kids who didn’t understand what you had been through, not in the bedroom where you cried over your fading memories with your father, but right here – with your favourite people who would always be there to fight your battles with you.

[scremogirl]

✧✩🜚𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐂 🜸𖤐✰

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

Yandere! Nerd x Academic Rival! Reader

Mentions of depressive behavior/thoughts of suicide. AFAB! Reader: is called “Ms”.

Annoying.

A know-it-all smarty pants that was simultaneously the worst pain in your ass. Not that he meant to be of course; you couldn’t really blame him. Sure, some people are just naturally smart; but not him. Following you around like a lost puppy no matter where you went. He was toying with you on purpose and you knew it! You just couldn’t understand why he decided to make your life worse.

Now, the relationship you have is more one sided. You’d make subtle jabs and throw cheap shots his way but all he ever did was laugh it off. He never fought back. From what you’ve gathered, he just prefers to stare. And when I say stare I mean straight into your soul type stare. Every time he gets annoyed or is thinking really hard about something that’s what he does. Stares. It’s really creepy and unsettling, all the times you caught him or tried to, he would just look away blushing, trying his best to hide behind his shaggy hair. Eyes burn holes through the back of your head five out of the seven days of the week. However, even the two days you aren’t in school, the feeling of eyes on you never seems cease. You feel chills crawl up your spine and always look over your shoulder wherever you go only to find nobody there.

You’ve always strived to be the best. Your home life was like the equivalent of being tossed in solitary co finemente and being left to rot. It seemed as if your parents only cared about your academic life. Therefore, they were always super strict about your grades. You knew it came from a place deep within their hearts, they just wanted you to do good in life; but it still hurt. You wanted to make them proud. Wanted to feel loved by the people who were supposed to be closest to you. So you pushed yourself to limits nobody could ever reach. From winning spelling bees to holding the spot of Vice President on your school's student council team. Schools were already offering you all expense scholarships in freshman year!

You were an all rounder. One of the most involved students in your grade. You were in various sports and academic clubs, always helped in school fundraisers, and even have 500(+) SS hrs.

“ Apologies, Ms. (L/N), but there’s nothing we can do about this. You’ll have to get a tutor in order to pass,”

Technical engineering.

Your worst subject. You excelled in physics and math; some would say the best. You got the formulas down to a T and knew everything there was to know. It was more so the building aspect of things. There were just so many damn parts! Who even needs an electriconic digital caliper anyways?!

“I’m sorry, (Y/n), but that’s just the way things turned out. You need this credit to graduate, but you needn’t worry. Miylo is the best at this. He’s perfect for the job,”

Miylo Reneritzer. A 6 foot, dead eyed, pale skinned dork. He’s never stood out to you. He wasn’t popular or a scholar. He didn’t play sports and wasn’t in any clubs. He didn’t participate in the annual dances and didn’t attended school games. He was just there. A regular student with a knack for technicalogical architecture. You were in 11th grade at the time. You needed to get all your credits out the way so you didn’t have to worry about them senior year. Not that it was a problem for you seeing as all of them were already completed. Well… except this one. You’ve been putting off for so long. You had to face it sooner or later. Too soon for your liking.

You would meet with Miylo twice a week; you were place in the same tech class so the first meeting didn’t really count. He was a great teacher! A little quiet and very monotone, but very thourough none the less. By the end of junior year you ended up with a A-. You parents hammered you for not making it a plus but you’ve come to terms with it. He saved you. And you were grateful. You ended up losing contact the transitioning year and just never interacted again; almost completely forgetting about him.

He didn’t forget about you though. How could he?! You were the most beautiful girl in the entire school! Nobody could compare to you. What you didn’t know about him was he was s everely bullied and even contiplated ending everything. That was until you came along. Someone finally wanted to talk to him. Even if it was just for help getting a good grade. Taking to a pretty popular girl and getting money and an increases on his report card? Sign him up. That one day changed the entirety of his life, he owes his life to you.

All he remembers is being called down to the counselors office; parents ready waiting and giving him the most bone crushing hug. Everything seemed like a blur from then on. But what he can remember is how he got there in the first place.

“A friend of yours, (Y/n) (L/n) had some concerns about your health. She said she’s been paying attention to you for awhile and noticed your self destructive behaviors,” says the counselor.

What? Before he started tutoring you he thought you were a teachers pet and hog all the chances for others to answer questions but if saves him the embarrassment of public speaking he doesn’t mind. You’ve noticed him? In more than just at tutor-tutee way? Nobody ever notices him. Not even his own parents. It’s evident with the amount of shock on their faces and all their “why didn’t you tell me’s” and confessions of love. He’s mad at you at first. He spends at least 3mths in that looney bin because of you. He hated it at first. All the questions and discard for privacy. But… slowly he changes. He becomes healthy and happy again. His mind drifts back to you. The way you would answer questions when you noticed the teachers eyes land on him, the way you would always do the presenting part in group presentations, the way gum and smiley faced erasers would apprear on his desk on a particularly hard day. You cared. You did this for everyone you saw struggling. Not that he took that into account, in his mind, he was the only one. You thought he was special. And he wouldn’t let anyone take his spot in your heart.

When he got out, he decided he was a changed person. Senior year would be his redemption arc and you would finally be together. You already were in his mind; you were just to scared. He saw straight through your act. That’s why you would do all that stuff for him instead of just coming out and saying it. He needed to pull himself together and become a better person first. He wanted you to be proud of him. He wanted you to see him for all he’s worth. He joined all the clubs you were in and surpassed all expectations. He became popular, inserting himself into all your social circles and even became a student council member beside you. Or should I say infront of you? The President. And the validictorinan.

Ugh! Since when did he become so…so great!? You don’t have any clue where this change in him came from and you want him to go back to the way he was. You were the best! You didn’t work this hard for your parents approval for nothing. They would always compare you time him. Miylos the student council president they’d say. He would never get an A-, he would never miss a volleyball game because he was overwhelmed with school work, he would never feel how school was the only true escape from an emotionally disabled household. He would never understand. Oh, but he did.

He’s been in your house plenty of times to know what’s going on. Not that you’ve know of course. That explains all the missing panties. Hmm, maybe that explains where all of your pens have gone too. And your half eaten food, and the Polaroids you’ve take of yourself, and your rose to-… Regardless! You’ve had enough of this! You needed him to know just exactly how you felt. What other way than asking him to meet you under the tree on Fri before school ends?

“I already know,” Hm?

“Good. I couldn’t hold this in any longer. You do know just exactly what I feel,”

“Oh my love but I do,” ….my love? What is he taking about.

“What am I talking about? Oh sweetheart, don’t play coy with me. It’s okay; I’ve always know the real reason behind your aggression towards me. Your just shy is all. I just want to let you know that I love you too. More than you could ever know,” he steps forward and arms outstretched and expecting a hug. He push on his chest and stare up at him in confusion. Love him? You don’t love him, you despise him! He chuckles.

“Like I said, it’s okay to be open about how you feel. That’s why you brought me here isn’t it?” What! This wasn’t some sort of confession. Well…technically… but not one of love! He was here to understand how much you loathed him. He had to not like you either, that’s why he did everything you did right…Right!? He hated you. He had to!

“Hate you? (Y/n), I could never hate you. After all you saved me,” at this point you thiught he was joking with you. Furthering your suspicions of his true feelings. You tried marching pasted him only for him to grab you arm. You tried to shuck him off but his grip was strong. All those clubs really built up his physice. He wasn’t the same scrawny little geek you remembered. He was larger, seeming as if he grew a few more inches. He filled out his uniform more, and his eyes became brighter and more emotional. If your affliction for him didn’t exist you’d think he was cute. The only thing that seemed hadn’t changed about him was his unwavering love and loyalty to you. He huffs out an exasperated sign, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“I get that your shy my love, but that’s there’s no need to be so rude. We’ll work on a more conventional way to express your emotions,”

“Do I have to spell it out for you! I don’t like you, you creep! You’ve been following me around every since the beginning of this year. You’ve taken everything from me. Clubs, student records, student president! Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get here! You act so laid back and relaxed about everything and it drives me nuts! I hate you!” You push past him again, angry tears forming from all the supressed emotional turmoil. He doesn’t grab you right away which makes you think he’s finally got the picture. Didn’t anyone ever tell you no to turn your back on the enemy? You’re suddenly grabbed and thrusted into the base of the tree. He tsks at your behavior before sighing again. Hands have now moved to your shoulders and apply slight pressure keeping you in place. If that didn’t do it, the way he's looking at you would’ve have; fierce and warning, and yet, filled with so much adoration.

“We need to fix this little attitude of yours, don’t we?” It’s rhetorical. You know that but you feel the urge to snap back at him. Before you could get a word out, you can her the distance ringing of the school bell signaling the end of the day. His phone rings on the last ring. He gives you a hard glare telepathically telling you not to move. He stands straighter and picks it up. With what you heard, the student council meeting is starting soon and the others are wondering where you two are. Saved by the bell. He sighs before grabbing his bag that he placed down as long as your hand before sighing.

“Unfortunately, we can’t continue this conversation my love. Lucky for us, it’s Friday. We’ll have the rest of the weekend to work it out of you,” he throws a coy smirk your way and grabs at his belt, readjusting it a bit. God, what will you do?

Hey loves! Hope you enjoyed. I’m thinking about making apart to of this. I wasn’t really confident in it and decided that I should give more explanation to Miylos behavior. This could just be his introduction and I’ll expand on it. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!

-Love, Sos❤️

[bunny-jpeg]

hiii bunny ! could i ask for a pastry braid and a sponge toffee with frozen latter and a vodka shot served by franco colapinto?

bakery menu

want to submit to the bakery? then hit up the menu! i'd love to hear from you. there are all kinds of things up on there to choose from! as for the lovely anon who sent this, thank you! i have yet to really get anything for franco! (and yes this does still mean that i'm writing for logan sargeant too!) thank you for the submission and enjoy!! <3

pastry braid ("your job is to make me cum. now get to work.") + sponge toffee ("aw, is someone mad that they can only cum because of me?") + frozen latte (dumbification) + vodka shot (rough sex) served by franco colapinto (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, established relationship, dirty talk/ degrading language, dom/sub, dom!reader, collars/bondage, messy oral sex (reader receives), cumming untouched

franco was riding a feeling higher than a kite. he was on top of the world, it was his second race and he earned points! that was awesome, it wasn't a trophy, but it was a start. he was given a chance and he was finally coming to fruition. he would be on that podium in no time!

but, even if gained nothing in baku. he could still come back to you, he could always come back to you. and play the sweet games you always played. franco loved when his long-time girlfriend was in charge in the bedroom. it excited him in ways that he couldn't describe. so after baku in the williams hotel room. he was met with his two favourite things.

a collar and dark blue rope. paired with it was a note.

"collar on, frankie. i'll be back soon. - your love."

franco felt a shudder through his body as he started to get undressed. he took a deep breath before he picked up the collar and placed it around his throat. this was all part of your little game, for the cameras you were childhood sweethearts with him finally rising to the top of the racing world.

and you were the sweet girlfriend who went to school and kept him tethered to reality. if only the press saw what you two got up to in the evenings, behind closed doors with the blinds closed. this was only something that came about when you both became adults, and franco savoured every last moment of it like honey on his fingers.

he sat on the couch in nothing but his briefs as he waited for you to come back to the hotel room. when the door opened he perked up and saw you come in. with purse in tow and a small paper bag.

you noticed him and smiled, "oh, frankie." then quickly got your sneakers off before you went over to him. your bag was placed to the side and you sat beside him on the couch. you kissed at his face lovingly and he melted into your kiss.

these kisses were different from the ones that you gave him on the track. those were sweet kisses for the camera, the kisses you gave him in the hotel room were heated.

"you look so good." you said softly, "you left the rope?"

he nodded, "of course." then kissed you gently in return. he felt a shudder run through him. he loved this. he knew from the moment it got introduced into his life, he loved it. to put all his trust into you and you'd care for him.

"good boy. i guess a good boy deserves a little treat then." you pulled away and took the paper bag, "but first, you'll need to be tied up. do you remember our safe word?"

"pilar."

"and our gesture?"

"four taps. then three nods." he replied.

you took him by the face again and pulled him into another heated kiss. which he melted into. when you pulled away soon after, he tried to get another taste of your lips, only to whine when he couldn't. you went to the table where the rope was, only to bring it back. then slowly tie up your boyfriend.

you had been lucky enough to know him for so long. you've seen him achieve greatness and now he was only going to go higher. and you would love him every day until the sun exploded.

"excellent." you said with a smile as you ran your hand across his jaw when you got close enough. then you started to tie his arms behind his beck, framing his chest nicely with the dark blue rope.

he squirmed a little and you 'shushed' him with kisses. which he was eager to accept. you finished tying him up. you heard him whimper a little and you chuckled. he sounded like a dream, he was handsome even when bound so pretty.

you started to undress, both of you were soon naked. franco eyed your body as you helped him onto his knees in front of the couch. his cock twitched, painfully hard from the immense feelings plus the rush of today's race. you combed your fingers through his hair and smiled, "your job is to make me cum. now get to work."

and franco looked at you with those big beautiful eyes and got to work. his tongue up against your cunt and you held onto tightly. you shuddered. franco was perfect.

he squirmed a little against the ropes while he ate you out. he looked perfect in his collar and binds. the perfect lover for you, the perfect man for you. he was a rising star and you were there are every turn. you adored him, loved him, he was the beating heart in your chest.

so who were you to deny him on his knees with his tongue against your slick cunt. you held onto him tightly and tried to guide his head against your sex.

you moaned heavily and could see that his cock was painfully hard. you knew the adrenaline from the day plus the activities now were only driving him crazy. you felt flustered while naked on the couch.

"my pretty boy." you said, you watched him try to figure out how to get friction across his cock as he shifted on his knees. you yanked his hair a little tighter as you added, "aw, is someone mad that they can only cum because of me?"

he whined and only gorged himself deeper into you cunt. his movements got quicker and with less of a pace as he found himself deeper in a hot lust. the pleasure was coursing through his body despite not even having any friction to get himself off with. you held onto him and felt his tongue against your pussy. you panted heavily between heavy moans as you felt the pleasure course through you on the couch.

"such a pretty boy. so good for me. you know exactly how to make me cum. you've always been the best for me. i love you."

he looked up at you, that look in his eye said it all. he loved you too. he adored you more than anything. even bound and collared, he loved you. he adored you, you were everything.

you whimpered a little bit and held onto his hair a little tighter. the pleasure was feeling overwhelming.

"shit. frankie." you whimpered.

he came without anyone or anything touching his cock. and his eyes rolled back a little at the feeling. he shuddered but continued to eat you out with a fever in his soul. even with his cum all over his cock and thighs.

"oh, honey." you exhaled and he shuddered. he continued to eat you out and made you hot all over. you could feel yourself closer to orgasm. the heat washed through you.

you came on his tongue and he felt a thrum of heat run through him. you tensed up then relaxed, then relaxed your grip on him and relaxed against the couch.

franco rubbed his cheek up against your thigh and smiled a little. it felt very good in his head as he rested his chin on your thigh and looked up at you.

you smiled, "pretty boy." and touched his face. his chin gleamed with wetness. he looked like he had a good time.

he was not only pretty, he was perfect.

when you took the ropes off, you grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and wiped his lips and face between you kissed him. he melted into your touch with his cock slick with his own cum.

you said, "such a good boy, usually i make you ask to cum, but tonight i'll let it slide." you then softly cleaned the cum off of him and watched him squirm a little.

he nodded dumbly, "yes, thank you! thank you!" and only got settled against you when you dragged the him against you on the couch with the throw blanket over the both his brain was in another place so you gently held him. then you grabbed the paper bag off the table with some effort.

"i got something sweet for you." you said.

he replied with a goofy smile, "is it more kisses?"

you kissed his forehead, "no. they're called shirin-gogal i think. it had nuts and sugar in them."

he shifted a little as you softly fed him. you smiled a little, the collar still was around his throat. he was your future champion, the love of your life. and on top of that your sweet submissive. <3

[sarahscribbles]

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐱

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝. 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐱

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐.𝟔𝐤

𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The vial slips from between your fingertips just as you’re about to finally seal the top. Almost in slow motion it falls to the workbench below, shattering with a mockingly musical smash and sending tiny shards of glass scattering in a million different directions. 

For a second, all you can do is stare silently at the pale blue liquid pooling on the surface, but a steady stream of curses is quickly unleashed as you move frantically to save the detailed notes spread out around you. You gather them to your chest like a mother would gather her children, and drop them on the bench behind with an irritated, angry groan. 

An entire days worth of work ruined because you couldn’t do something as simple as hold onto a vial. 

Some scientist you are. 

From the corner of your eye you see James raise his head. When you told him you’d be alone in the lab all day doing research for MONARCH he insisted on joining you, even in spite of your protestations that he’d be bored out of his skull watching you work. 

“It’s not exciting work,” you had told him with a smile. “It’s equations and formulas and mixing chemicals. You’d hate it.”

James had only given you that soft smile that he knew was your weakness. “I barely see you enough as it is, love. I won’t make a sound. Scouts honour.”

It’s impossible to deny him anything, especially when he looks at you like you hung the moon, and so he’s sat quietly at an empty bench reading a two week old newspaper while you work. 

His Scout’s honour lasted roughly thirty minutes. Naturally curious, he had followed you around the lab like a child all morning, asking detailed questions about every step of your process. But, if you’re being very honest, it’s been nice to have him there to alleviate some of the loneliness of your work. 

He’s been banished to the other side of the lab for the last half hour to allow you to concentrate, but you can feel him watching you as you begin to clear the mess from your workbench, and you can almost hear the wheels in his head turning as to whether he should approach or leave you be. 

Ultimately, it’s the former that wins. 

There’s a quiet rustle as he folds the newspaper up neatly and places it exactly where he found it. It attracts your gaze and you watch him unfold from the bench like an elegant housecat, hesitating for only half a second before he closes the short distance between you both in several large steps. 

James loops his arms easily around your waist and pulls you back against his chest. His closeness brings with it the clean scent of his soap and the subtle pine of his shaving cream - that alone is almost enough to ground you. “You’re tired, love,” he says softly. “And you’ve barely left this lab all week. You’re going to exhaust that brilliant mind unless you take a break.”

His lips then press firmly to your temple. It’s his favoured soothing gesture and it never fails, not even when the inside of your mind feels like a hamster on a wheel. Slowly, the rolling wave of rage swirling inside you begins to quiet until there’s nothing but the feel of James’ arms wrapped around your waist. 

You hate how good he is at that. 

“This brilliant mind can’t take a break,” you reply tiredly, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the week settle over you. “I’ve got a deadline biting at my ass that can’t be pushed any further. There’s no time to switch off and have a pina colada.” 

James hums in your ear, immediately awakening a trail of goosebumps along your arms. “You did an excellent job at switching off last night.”

The tip of his nose nudges your jaw. It’s so simple, so small, but you curse the man to hell and back. 

Of course he’s going to bring up the night before when you had spent hours tangled beneath the sheets, bracketing his broad body between your shaking thighs while your name was a prayer on his lips. Of course he’s going to make you think of the way his lips had thoroughly worshipped every inch of your body, and how he’d had to cover your mouth to silence your cries lest you wake the entire building.  

Of course he’s going to make you think of the pleasure he’s capable of ripping from your body, because he knows you well enough to know that it’s a foolproof way to distract you.

You say nothing as he continues to trail lazy, haphazard kisses along the back of your neck and across your shoulder. The notes you saved only a few minutes earlier stare back at you from the workbench, and you know you should get back to the deadline at hand, but how can you be expected to focus when James is twisted around you like a viper?

And surely a few seconds of distraction isn’t going to cost you your career. 

“I should tell you to piss off and let me work,” you say, biting back a sigh when James bites gently at your earlobe, “but some stress relief would be really nice right now.”

James laughs in your ear, soft and low and genuinely amused, but his fingers are already dipping beneath the hem of your shirt to dance across your bare skin. “Is that all I am to you? Stress relief?”

You hope he knows he’s anything but. 

James Conrad is the very reason you’re standing in this lab because he believed in your abilities when you didn’t even believe in them yourself. He’s the person you want to share every miniscule detail of your life with no matter how ridiculous. He’s the first person you look for in a room, and his are the only lips you want to kiss at the end of the day. 

He’s the love of your life, and you pray that he never reduces himself to merely being the person who distracts you from the stress of your job. 

Even though he’s very, very good at it.              

His fingertips trace a familiar path along your abdomen, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as your entire body responds instantly to his touch. Those practiced fingers then slip easily inside your bra to twist your nipples, as though emphasising his displeasure, but it only pulls a satisfied smile across your face. 

“You’re the one who said I needed to take a break and then offered yourself up. What would you call it?” you tease him. 

There’s another twist of your nipples, enough to make you gasp, but the pads of his thumbs are quick to soothe. “I’d call you an impudent brat,” he replies, beginning to trail a lazy path of kisses along the column of your throat.           

You grin wider and tilt your head onto your shoulder, offering him as much of you as you can. “We established that a long time ago, Captain. You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Brat,” he says again with a smile in his voice. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

James presses a final kiss to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, so gentle and so chaste that your heart skips in your chest, and you’re once again left marvelling at the emotions that this man can awaken in you. In the space of five minutes he’s made you feel calm, desired, playful, and infatuated, and, not for the first time, you think about how stupidly lucky you are to call him yours. 

Your jungle man, as you’ve taken to calling him.

Much too soon he untangles his weight from around you, but you feel two firm hands come to rest on your hips. They give you a squeeze and, before you can complain at the sudden coldness his absence brings, James is quickly spinning you around to pin you back against the workbench. His grip tightens only a fraction, as though he’s labouring under some absurd belief that you might bolt, but then one hand rises from your hip to cup your cheek. His touch is so familiar to you that you can’t help but lean into it, even more so with the almost reverential way his thumb strokes your skin. 

“How many cups of coffee have you had today?” he asks, blue eyes boring into you. 

You hesitate for only a heartbeat. “Three,” you reply, but James is quick to cock an eyebrow. “Four.” 

He sighs softly and pulls you close enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “Oblivious girl,” he teases quietly. “I know how important this project is to you, and I know that it requires a great deal of your time and energy, but you have exhausted yourself, love.”

There’s a brief moment of nothing, then James is taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “This brilliant mind is done for today. Understand?”

His voice is still velvet soft, but there’s no mistaking that this is a command he expects you to obey. Even so, the urge to be a brat rises like a storm inside you because you know how much he enjoys the game, but another larger part of you is already folding like a house of cards.

How can you not with the devastating promise that’s glittering in those blue eyes?

You nod quickly in response, eager to experience his unique form of stress relief. “Yes, Captain.”

James tilts his head to the side, fixing you with a gaze that’s full of fond exasperation. “Careful, my sweet girl, or you might bite off more than you can handle.” 

“Maybe tomorrow when you have more time to teach me a lesson,” you reply with a smirk. 

James laughs at your wit, smiling so wide that you can see the soft crinkles that form at the corners of his eyes. “Reckless. Utterly reckless,” he replies softly, and the next thing you know is his lips on yours. 

James kisses you slowly and so deeply that it takes your breath away. You melt into him easily, letting him coax your arms around his shoulders in time with a large hand pressing against the small of your back to clamp you against his chest. A moan flutters from your mouth to his as you grip him like a vice, digging your fingers greedily into the defined muscles of his back while he kisses you like you’re his only source of oxygen.

You feel dizzy, and it’s as good a distraction as any, but you realise it’s nothing more than a precursor when his lips eventually leave yours and he folds to his knees before you. 

Still drunk on the taste of his kiss, you can only watch as he makes himself comfortable on the unforgiving laboratory floor. He looks sinfully perfect kneeling in front of you, and when you see the raw desire that’s swirling in those pretty blue eyes, it almost has you fold. 

“If it’s stress relief you want, love,” James murmurs, sliding his hands underneath the hem of your skirt until it bunches at your hips, “then I’m only too happy to provide.” 

Cool air winds its way around your thighs, but James’ lips are quick to dispel the chill. He teases a slow path along your right thigh while his thumb traces nonsensical patterns on the other, and both combined raise a molten fire of arousal to life in the pit of your stomach. 

Each press of his warm lips to your flushed skin makes your cunt pulse with need, and it doesn’t take long before a desperate whimper floats from your lips. You feel James smirk then suck a particularly rough bruise into the top of your thigh. 

“Jesus Christ,” you moan shamelessly, letting an eager hand fall to twist into his hair.

You wait expectantly for him to climb higher, but, much to your irritation, he pulls back to lift his eyes to yours, though not before curling lazy fingers around the waistband of your underwear. 

“Well, don’t -,” you begin, only to be immediately silenced by James ripping away the flimsy material of your underwear. 

“Would you like to continue?” he asks, already placing two hands on your thighs to coax them apart.

You shake your head. “N-no. Not important.” 

“My good girl,” James praises you with another kiss to your lower stomach. “I expect my contributions to be noted in your final report,” he says with such an air of seriousness that you can’t help but laugh outright. 

“A footnote in my Nobel Prize acceptance speech is the best I can offer,” you reply. 

“Beautiful, brilliant, and remarkably humble. Any wonder I adore you,” he teases back, and finally, finally, you feel his mouth on your cunt. 

He feels better every single time, you can’t help but think. He’s a man who takes pleasure in giving, and nowhere does that shine through more than when he’s between your thighs. His tongue caresses your cunt like a long lost lover, ensuring that no part of you is left neglected. 

“James…fuck.” They’re the only words you’re capable of saying as he pays particular attention to your clit.

He groans low in his throat and the vibrations are enough to have you slamming your hand back on the bench behind to keep yourself steady. You chance a glance down at the devil between your legs, and your eyes immediately lock with his. You watch as he pleasures you, watch as he curls his hands around your hips to pull you closer to his mouth, then closes his eyes at the taste of you.

You know you aren’t going to last long. 

A storm of pleasure is quickly rising in your core, swirling faster and faster with each second James’ tongue remains buried in your cunt. Your hand curls like a vice in his hair to guide him and he obediently follows. Those strong hands squeeze your hips - a silent request - and you quickly flick your eyes back down to his. 

“I know…I know. Just keep going…please, James,” you plead. You’re climbing higher up the ascent and ready to topple, so it’s only too easy to grant him his one request. 

Let him watch you fall. 

His blue eyes are boring into you, not willing to risk even a second of you falling apart, and when you catch a glance of your own arousal coating his upper lip, you know you’re gone. 

Your orgasm rips through you so violently that you lose the ability to breathe, to form thoughts, to do anything but keep your eyes on James. But when you finally do find your voice, James’ name is imprinted into the very foundations of the laboratory. He fucks you through it all, until you’re a quivering, boneless wreck above him shaking through the aftershocks. 

You’re still panting when he finally pulls back, unable to do anything but watch mutely as he pulls your skirt back into place and gets to his feet. Instantly, he’s gathering you in his arms and holding you against his chest, letting one hand run slowly along the length of your back. 

“Better?” he asks, pulling away just enough to catch your chin between his fingers. 

You nod slowly. “Uh huh, but I can’t remember why I needed to feel better.”

James laughs and presses a kiss to your forehead. “My poor girl. Why don’t I take you home so you can lie down?” 

You let him loop an arm around your waist and pull you against his side. “I feel like there might be a double meaning to that.” 

“There is,” James replies, not missing a beat. 

“Then take me home, Captain.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

maybe this is a weird question, maybe not, ignore it you feel weird to answer!

what's the reaction about having a "real" baby for AGS? (can be a joke) (or not?) (maybe not)

Sephiroth: Suspiciously competent. Actually no, Terrifyingly competent. He straps the baby to chest in a reinforced, custom-fit holster. The baby has more armor than SOLDIER Thirds. He doesn't even break eye contact while neutralizing a threat. The baby sleeps through explosions. Sephiroth knows exact dosages of formula, microwaves nothing, uses a sterilized portable bottle warmer, and wears a baby monitor clipped to his coat. He owns an annotated parenting manual and will raise this child in a safe, healthy and loving environment. He's got sensory toys and classical music on rotation and gives the baby tummy time on a plush rug. The baby drools and Sephiroth sighs in relief— "Excellent. Salivary function working normally." He's so lenient and loving that it drives Lazard insane.

Lazard: Why is there a child here. Sephiroth: They woke for this. Must I deny them exposure to other humans? Lazard: The baby is holding your SUMMON MATERIA. Sephiroth: They need to play with everything they see to satiate their sensory needs, Director. *The baby giggles, then activates Ifrit*

Angeal: Anxious as hell, simultaneously knows what he's doing and doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He has a parenting planner, charts nap schedules, feeding times, but is so anxious and keeps googling things like: "how loud is too loud for baby sneeze??" and "baby said gaaa is that a cry for help??" Baby giggles—Angeal immediately starts crying. Baby sneezes—Angeal also sneezes and cries harder. Zack walks in with a blanket cape and says "I'm gonna be the cool uncle who teaches them how to backflip off rooftops." Angeal responds by grabbing him by the neck and whispering: "No. You're going to be the responsible uncle who holds the diaper bag, memorizes the pediatrician's number, and sings the backup vocals to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I have not slept in four days, Zackary. Do not test me." Zack finally knows fear.

Genesis: Treats the baby like it's a luxury, limited edition accessory and carries it like a fashion statement. It's got leather booties, a gold-trimmed pacifier, and a red bib that says Amor Fati. He's competent, surprisingly, but barely. Forgets bottles but remembers the imported artisanal tangerine baby food that comes in a crystal jar. Takes baby to missions, to cafés, and to nightclubs to pick up dates. Spins elaborate stories to strangers like "My wife left me... she said I loved the stage more than her and left me with our child." Women cry and hug him.

[crssvjb]

Moments -Sebastian Vettel

Sebastian Vettel x Senna!reader

Summary: Moments of your relationship with the pilot Sebastian.

Warnings: Mentions of Ayrton Senna here (not many). A little long.

The Encounter - 2008

The year was 2008, and the Formula 1 tracks were both a place of excitement and nostalgia for you. As the daughter of Ayrton Senna, the racing legend, the world of F1 has always been part of her life. Now, as a mechanical engineering student, you landed an internship at Toro Rosso, an opportunity that blended your passion for engineering with deep memories of your father.

One afternoon, in the Toro Rosso pits, while analyzing the car's data, the voice of Sebastian Vettel, a young German driver, interrupted his thoughts. – "These numbers always seem very complicated." – He said with a relaxed smile.

You turned around, surprised to see the pilot next to you. – "Well, to me, they tell fascinating stories." – You replied, smiling. The connection has been made. Sebastian, curious and respectful, began to ask questions about his father and the time when Senna dominated the tracks.

– "Ayrton Senna is a legend. What is most incredible about him that people don't know?"

You smiled, appreciating the sincerity of the question. – "In addition to his incredible driving skills, my father was driven by an intense passion for competition, but also by a deep respect for other competitors. He sought excellence, not just for himself, but to elevate the entire sport."

Sebastian, his eyes shining with interest, replied: – "It's incredible how he influenced Formula 1 and all of us. I'd love to hear more about him."

Between conversations about cars, racing and engines, you got closer and became friends. Sebastian, being a promising driver at the time, showed genuine interest in his passion for mechanical engineering. The bond between you grew, even when he left for the Red Bull team the following year.

The Invitation - 2009

In 2009, Red Bull Racing became the new stage for the emotions of Formula 1. Sebastian Vettel, now the team's driver, was conquering the world with his skill on the track. Still, you remained a constant part of his life, the connection growing with each run.

The day after the exciting race in Singapore, Sebastian invites you to a quiet dinner. The atmosphere is cozy, an elegant restaurant in the city. As you browse the menus, Sebastian smiles, looking straight into your eyes.

– “These moments on the track have been even better with you around.” - He says. – "And I was wondering if you'd like to hang out with me. Not as teammates, but as... something more."

Sebastian holds his hand, demonstrating the sincerity of his words. – "I really wish this was something beyond the track. What do you think?"

The sincerity in Sebastian's words is moving. You smile, feeling a rush of emotion. – "I would love to, Sebastian. It would be a pleasure."

The Instructor - 2010

The year was 2010 and the Formula 1 season was about to start. Red Bull's Sebastian Vettel had a bigger challenge ahead of him. And you? Well, you were about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. Red Bull Racing decided that you would be Sebastian's instructor for the season.

The days leading up to the start of the season were intense. You and Sebastian spent hours on the simulators, discussing strategies, adjusting technical details and analyzing each curve of the circuit. It was a perfect elaboration, where the pilot and the engineer shared ideas and experiences.

On a rainy afternoon at the Red Bull office, Sebastian looks at you with a smile. – "You really know what you're doing. It's amazing how everything makes more sense when explained by you."

You laugh, sharing your knowledge with passion. – "It's all about understanding the nuances, the details that can make a difference. And when you drive, these details become even more crucial."

The season begins and the races bring challenges and triumphs. In a memorable race, Sebastian achieves another podium at home. The atmosphere in the pits is electric, and after the team celebrates, they turn to you.

– “This is for us, for our partnership.” – says Sebastian, and before you know it, your lips meet in a passionate kiss, revealing to the world the connection that developed behind the scenes.

The news about you two spreads quickly through the media, but you face everything head on. At a press conference, Sebastian smiles for the cameras. – “Finding someone who shares the passion for the sport and understands the madness that is Formula 1 is rare. And I’m grateful to have her by my side.”

The coming months will be one of continued celebration. Wins on the track create a unique dynamic. The world championship is an achievement for both of them, and on the podium, after the last race of the season, Sebastian surprises everyone again by holding the trophy, looking at himself and saying: “This victory is ours.

Commitments - 2012

After an intense and exciting race, you and Sebastian return to the hotel tired, but radiant from the victories achieved on the track. The atmosphere is relaxed and intimate when you find yourself in the hotel suite, with the city lit up in the distance.

Already dressed casually, you snuggle into bed, sharing laughs and memories of the day. The city lights mix with the twinkle of the stars, creating a magical scene.

Sebastian, looking at you tenderly, comments: – "You know, today was a special day. Not just for the races, but for being together. I have something for you." – He gets up and takes something from the table next to the bed.

Upon returning, Sebastian holds a small box. His eyes light up as he opens the box, revealing the dazzling ring. – “From the moment we met on the slopes, my life changed, darling. It’s not just about running for me, it’s about the journey we’re building together.”

He looked into her eyes tenderly. – "I don't just want the races, I want all the twists and turns of life by your side. So, Y/N, will you agree to be mine forever?"

The moment for Y/N is as if she were participating in a romantic movie. Your romantic movie. The city lights, the few stars in the sky and Sebastian's request create an unforgettable scene.

You, excited, respond with a smile lighting up your face. – "Yes, Sebastian. I accept with all my heart."

He gently places the ring on your finger, a tangible symbol of your commitment. The cold ring is bright and contrasts with the warm exchange of glances between you. An enveloping hug follows, as if it were a seal that transcends words. The racing heart is the echo of the emotion shared in that intimate moment. Amid the silence of the hotel suite, the kiss that follows is soft but full of meaning.

Weddings and Achievements - 2013

In 2013, on July 13th, the wedding of Sebastian Vettel and S/N Senna was a great spectacle. The lush garden was adorned with a profusion of flowers, while the mountains in the background provided a picturesque backdrop. The golden early afternoon sun cast a magical light on the ceremony, where Sebastian anxiously awaited the arrival of his bride.

The bride, radiant in her wedding dress, walked towards the altar. Sebastian looked at her in awe, and when she finally reached his side, he whispered, "You look amazing." The words were soft, but they carried with them all the depth of the love they had built since that first conversation.

The ceremony was filled with personal vows, each word echoing the unique journey that brought them here. When it was time for the vows, Sebastian held Y/N's hands gently.

– "Y/N, since the moment you came into my life, everything has changed. You are not only my partner, but my light at all times. I promise to be your constant support, to love you on good days and bad, always ."

With tears in her eyes, Y/N replied: – “Sebastian, you are my passion and my calm. I promise to support your dreams, laugh with you in the joys and face the challenges together. ."

The kiss after the vows wasn't just a symbolic gesture; it was the confirmation of an eternal promise. Under the warm applause of the guests, the celebration continued in an atmosphere of joy and happiness.

The reception was a festival of colors, twinkling lights and carefully planned details. The party continued with dancing, laughter and unforgettable moments. Each reflected the couple's unique personality and the love that permeated their union.

In the privacy of Sebastian's three-time world champion's room, the trophies and photos that told the story of his victorious career were proof of his achievements not only on the track, but now also in his personal life. The wedding photo occupied a prominent place, symbolizing the harmony between professional and personal victories.

Life continued with travel, intimate moments and the making of memories that would become fundamental pillars of the journey together.

At the end of 2013 the Brazilian Grand Prix arrived and emotions were running high. Sebastian, determined and focused, aimed for his fourth world championship. The Interlagos tracks witnessed a spectacular performance, culminating in the victory of Sebastian Vettel, who became four-time world champion.

In the pits, the team celebrated and Y/N was there, proud and excited. Y/N, with a smile lighting up her face, approached him. – "You deserve it, love." – She said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

Thus, under the vibrant colors of Brazil, the couple celebrated not just a victory on the tracks, but the victory of a love that withstood all the curves and straights of life. Sebastian Vettel's fourth championship marked not only racing glory, but also the consolidation of an extraordinary journey, where love and success were intertwined in a unique and unforgettable narrative.

Family and New Challenges - 2015-2022

The years that followed marked an extraordinary journey for Sebastian Vettel and S/N Senna-Vettel, a path full of challenges. In 2015, Sebastian embraced Scuderia Ferrari, diving into a chapter full of promises and achievements.

The space dedicated to Sebastian achievements, where his shiny trophies are kept, but now also for children's laughter and colorful toys. Elias, the firstborn, was born in January 2016, filling the house with the sweet melody of a baby's cry and transforming the world bedroom into a haven of joy and life.

Antonella's arrival in May 2019 further expanded the Vettel family's horizons. The days were filled with laughter, games and the innocent wonder of children discovering the world. The pantry room, where all the trophies are kept, now decorated with drawings and children's toys, has become a microcosm of family love.

At the end of the 2021 season, where Sebastian was at the Aston Martin team, he decided to retire and had Y/N's full support.

On a calm day, Sebastian and Y/N found a moment for a serious conversation about the future, sitting in the world room. Looking at the trophies that told the story of his victories, Sebastian began, "I think it's time for a change, Y/N. I've decided to retire at the end of this season."

Y/N looked at him surprised and, at the same time, understanding. – "Sebastian, this is serious. Are you sure this is the right time?"

Sebastian held her hand tenderly. – "Yes, I'm sure. I want to be more present for you, for Elias and Antonella. Every time I get home it seems like they grow another 5 centimeters. Life is more than tracks and races."

Y/N, despite her surprise, smiled, feeling the warmth of her decision. – "I understand. We will be by your side no matter what."

The last Grand Prix - 2022

The final Grand Prix of the 2022 season was a bittersweet spectacle. In the Aston Martin pits, the atmosphere was charged with emotion as the Vettel family gathered to support Sebastian in his final race. Watching the race, Y/N got emotional.

Six-year-old Elias watched beside her, with a mixture of curiosity and understanding beyond his years. 3-year-old Antonella was excited, fascinated by the colorful cars on the screen.

When the race ended and Sebastian crossed the finish line for the last time, Y/N was emotional and proud. As they approached the pits, he affectionately joked: – “You are sadder than me, because I am retiring”.

Y/N laughed, wiping away a furtive tear. – “It’s hard not to get emotional, Sebastian. There were so many achievements, so many laps together.”

Sebastian hugged her, looking at Elias and Antonella. – "You saw daddy run, didn't you?"

Elias, his eyes shining, nodded. – “It was incredible, daddy!”

Antonella, in her enthusiastic way, exclaimed: – “I want to run too!”

Sebastian laughed, taking her in his arms. – "Who knows, little one. Life is full of surprises."

⎊𝙘𝙧𝙨𝙨𝙫𝙟𝙗 - ²⁰²⁴

[vonbabbitt]

Dear VonBabbit/Tetro Team,

I remember when I first found Isono’s interview. I was still a fresh little newbie to Danganronpa; a series of laughably awful writing that gained a cult following. By the time I discovered V3’s ending, all I’ve ever wanted was a Good Danganronpa Game. A story that has the same amount of effort put into it as the characters (with some exceptions *cough cough* Miu *cough*). While looking through this new thing called “Fangans”, I found you. You and the Class of Session 1.

Tetro Danganronpa wasn’t my first Fangan, that award goes to Danganronpa 69, but that doesn’t discredit how phenomenal this all turned out to be. It started with simply listening to it like your usual audio drama. I didn’t think anything special of it at first. It wasn’t until the bells of Sasaki’s demise rang did I find myself growing invested proper. The choice of not having a “Main Character” was definitely a good call. Without being stuck to someone’s head the whole time, we’re able to get a feel for everyone and see interactions Danganronpa Fans would usually have to make themselves to see. You also gain this feeling of unpredictability. With no one set in stone to survive (Protag, Antag, Support, etc) you really have no idea who’s gonna make it out.

It’s only made more insane by how excellent the cast was. Wanna know why? THEY ARE ACTUAL PEOPLE! Not caricatures or overly extreme personalities. Just real, honest to god, flawed, but still likable people with their own developments. I’ve been gassing up Sasaki and Watari for a while, but Hiroaki might actually be my favorite. He’s not the next Byakuya where he’s an asshole who doesn’t even change. We see him actually better himself and question what he’s done with his developments with Wada and ESPECIALLY Ojima. It goes to show that even if you may not favor other students in the beginning, it’s guaranteed you’ll fall in love with the cast the moment it’s their time to go. (Also the Voice Actors/Actresses were phenomenal. Here’s hoping this kickstarts their careers outside of Tetro!)

Another amazing improvement are the murders and their trials. The OG Danganronpa’s trials were usually only able to be solved by strokes of convenience and unnatural amounts of luck. That and they tend to drag while ignoring facts that can end the trial within minutes. But here? Every trial had honest to god logic by their side. The clues and evidence all coming together with understandable reasoning, all wrapping up with some kind of ingenious twist to keep the viewers on their toes. These cases feel like they can be put into Ace Attorney and they’ll feel right at home they’re that good!

I think I can full heartedly say that this is one of the Danganronpa Community’s best Fangans. I’ll even go as far as to say it’s the Gold Standard for what a Fangan should be. An innovative spin on the original Danganronpa Formula while maintaining the same feel of the actual Danganronpa. It’s been an honor to be part of this roller coaster of a first chapter and to graduate along side these poor unfortunate souls (Context: I’m in my Senior Year with like, two months left till I’m free). As someone who’s mostly been joking around in this community, it’s nice to finally have my true thoughts out there about this masterpiece. Much applause to you VonBabbit, and the rest of the Tetro Team. I look forward to seeing the next psyche boggling entry in Tetro Blue (Da ba dee da ba di). Thank you again…

Sincerely, .nfhd (the guy who’s been using Spongebob Gifs on Tetrocord)

thank you very very much! im really glad you found so much to enjoy with tetro! im incredibly flattered by how much love youve shown my series

[ladygelfling]

Manfred Finds a Baby - The Fic

This is the fan fic continuation of the comic I made of Manfred finding a baby in the Necropolis.

(I don't know if Thedas has a baby formula equivalent but let's just pretend they do!)

Emmrich had just finished making notations on his students' research papers when he heard what sounded like a baby crying in the distance outside of his apartment in the Necropolis.

He shook his head at the the preposterous thought. He glanced up at the portrait of him and Tessora on their wedding day and smiled. He always missed her while she was off at sea, but knew she was due to be back in a few days time. Emmrich still sometimes couldn't believe that he had found such love.

He heard the crying sound again as he made his way to the kitchen to make some tea. Where was Manfred? The sound seemed closer now. Emmrich stepped outside just as Manfred was hurrying up to him. He was carrying something wrapped in brown in his bony arms.

"Manfred! What have you got there?"

"Dunno!"

Before he could, once again, import the proper manner of speaking, Emmrich looked down at the bundle and gasped.

"Oh my word, look at you." He whispered, voice soft and full of wonder. A baby with cherub cheeks and blue eyes peered up at him. "Where did you come from?" He asked as he took the child from Manfred.

"Found in box." Said Manfred, pointing in the direction he had come from.

"Found? Oh dear."

Emmrich took the baby inside and set it down to inspect for any injuries. The baby boy seemed slightly underweight but otherwise looked healthy. He wrapped him back up in the blanket.

"Manfred? Show me where you found him."

After finding nothing of note inside the box, Emmrich took the baby to Myrna and Vorgoth.

"A child? Abandoned in the tombs? We must contact one of the orphanages in the city. It may take a few days to place the child." Mryna said. She noticed how Emmrich unconsciously clutched the baby closer. "Unless you think the baby should remain with us?"

"ANOTHER VOLKARIN" boomed Vorgoth.

Emmrich gazed down at his little face and realized the baby had fallen asleep in his arms. The mention of an orphanage brought Tess to mind. Granted the ones here in Nevarra City were much better than the one she grew up in.

Could they adopt this child? He had always thought about becoming a father but he knew Tessora had reservations. They had briefly discussed the possibility of children after they got engaged but nothing was ever set in stone.

"I will look after him while you contact the orphanages. I cannot make such a decision without Tessora though."

"Very well."

Emmrich left them and immediately set out to procure the needed supplies to care for an infant, Manfred in tow. He knew of one Mourn Watcher couple that had a child in the last year and made his way to their quarters to see if they could assist with anything.

"Professor Volkarin! What a surprise!" The woman tried to compose herself at finding her former teacher and much respected Senior Necromancer on her doorstep. And with a baby at that.

"Watcher Reinmenkortz, I apologize for calling unannounced. Might I enquire if you have any baby items that your own little one has outgrown? I will happily compensate you for anything you are willing to part with."

"I might have a few things. Please come in. I had heard you were recently married, Professor, but I didn't know you'd welcomed a baby as well! Congratulations!"

Emmrich couldn't help but smile. "Well, this one was found abandoned in the tombs. Manfred here found him. I'm going to be taking care of him until we can settle on what to do with him."

"Abandoned? The poor dear. I'm sure you and your wife will take excellent care of him, Professor." She excused herself to gather some things for him.

Emmrich looked down at his charge and saw that he was still asleep. What is your story, little one? Watcher Reinmenkortz returned with a box of things for him.

"Manfred, if you please! Thank you, again."

Once back at home, the baby woke up and required feeding and changing. Emmrich had never actually changed a diaper before but he was a quick study. He spent the rest of the evening reading to him until he fell asleep again. Emmrich put him in a makeshift crib he made from a box and settled into his own bed and he found himself once again missing Tessora.

Three days had past and he, Manfred, and the baby had developed a routine of sorts. Manfred was so curious about him and eager to help.

"Baby!" He now shouted every time he saw him.

Emmrich had taken the baby on walks about the gardens, introducing him to his parents even. They visited Myrna and Vorgoth as well.

"You have taken quite a shine to him, Professor." Myrna said.

"I admit I have."

"How will Rook react?" She asked.

"Im not sure, truthfully. But she's due back today so we shall know soon enough."

~~~~

Emmrich was more nervous than he was when he proposed to Tess. The baby was napping in their room and he was trying to write a report on spirit activity in the Necropolis, but all he could think of was what her reaction was going to be. An hour later he gave up entirely on the report and made some tea instead. Emmrich heard the turn of a key in the door and Tessora walked in smelling like sea air and sunshine.

"Darling, you're home!" He said making his way to her.

"I missed you, Emmrich. " Tess replied, wrapping her arms around his neck and greeting him with her lips on his.

He couldn't help but wrap his own around her, deepening the kiss. He missed her too.

She had just started to thread her fingers into his hair when the cry of a baby in the next room stopped her in her tracks.

Tessora looked at him with wide eyes. "What was that?"

"Darling, I…"

The baby let out another cry and she went to the door of their room and opened it, pausing in the doorway. "Emmrich? Why is there a baby in our room??"

"Well, you see, Manfred found him." He started to explain.

"Found him?"

"In the tombs, " He continued. "He appears to have been abandoned." Tessora's attention snapped to his face the moment he said the word.

"Abandoned?" She said much softer.

"Yes." Emmrich moved past her to pick up the baby. "I've been taking care of him for the past few days while we wait for someone from one of the orphanages in the city comes to collect him."

He had come to know enough of her face that he knew she was tensing her jaw at the mention of the orphanage. He knew she wouldn't be keen.

"I promise you that our orphanages are nothing like the one you grew up in, dearest."

Her eyes followed him as he took the baby into the kitchen to make him a bottle. Manfred walked in and clapped when he saw Tessora.

"Tess!!! Baby!!"

"Manfred, could you hold him while I make up a bottle, please?"

~~~~~~

Whatever homecoming Tessora was expecting nothing could have prepared her for this. She was a bundle of emotions. It was plain to see that Emmrich was already attached to this child.

They had discussed children when they got engaged but while she had never said no exactly, she also didn't say yes. Tess had no reservation that Emmrich would make, and already is, a wonderful father. She sees it with Manfred. She's seen it with Taash, Bellara, and Jacobus. She sees it in the domestic scene before her. The problem was her. What did she know about being a mother? Absolutely nothing. Her own mother didn't want her. The woman who ran the orphanage certainly didn't act like a mother, at least Tess didn't think that was what mothers were supposed to be like.

She watched Manfred hold the baby while Emmrich moved about the kitchen with efficiency. "Baby!" Manfred shouted proudly.

Tess couldn't help but smile. "Was there a note or anything found with him?" She asked.

"Nothing at all. We searched the area immediately and found no trace of who left him. No reports of an abduction either. He was simply…left." Emmrich took the baby and sat down at the table to give him his bottle.

"Where did you get all these baby things?"

"Oh, I know a former student who recently had a baby and she was very helpful in getting me started."

Watching Emmrich with this baby was making her feel things that she didn't know what to do with. She didn't know she'd find him just as attractive with a baby as she does when he's casting spells or teaching a class.

"You said the orphanage was coming to get him? When exactly?"

"I believe someone should be here tomorrow. So he will only be our guest for one more night it seems." Tessora could hear the sadness in his voice. Yeah, he was definitely attached.

"Oh." Somehow that revelation made her sad.

"Darling, I…"

"You want us to keep him. To raise him as our child, don't you?"

Emmrich looked at her and then back down at the baby. "The thought has crossed my mind…several times. I know you have said that you didn't want to be a mother and I respect your wishes."

"Emmrich, it's because I'm afraid." She confessed. "I've always been afraid that whatever caused my mother to take one look at me and throw me away, made it's way into me. I never felt that, what do they call it, maternal instinct. So I just assumed that since my mother didn't feel it, that I didn't either."

"But Darling, you don't know if your mother was forced to leave you or if something happened to her. She may not have wanted to give you up."

"I know but these feelings have always been there. Then I met Taash and just started feeling protective of them. Same thing with Bellara and with Jacobus. Then I fell in love with a necromancer and started feeling protective of his skeleton son. Isabela told me it was because I was feeling maternal. I told her she was crazy but turns out maybe she was right?" "Tessora, when Taash calls us the "mom and dad of the group" they aren't fully joking, you know. They have come to look to you as a mother figure." He reached over to squeeze her hand.

"I am no replacement for Shathann." Tess countered.

"No, but you have been mothering Taash more than you realize. And Manfred here."

Manfred clapped upon hearing his name. "Tess!!" He said enthusiastically. "Baby!"

"I see you are not the only one already attached." Tess couldn't help but chuckle as Manfred started a game of peekaboo with the baby.

"Manfred has taken quite an interest in him. Only natural for a spirit of curiosity."

Tess was starting to feel overwhelmed and anxious. "I know I just got home, but I need to think. I'm going to go for a walk." She kissed Emmrich on her way out and touched the baby's hair. He really was an adorable baby and he looked perfectly content in Emmrich's arms. Tessora knew that feeling.

She left their apartment and made her way to the memorial gardens. She was sitting on one of the benches near Emmrich's parents when she noticed Vorgoth making his way up the path towards her. Tess didn't usual see him in the garden and the last time she did, he was scolding her and Emmrich for doing something they probably shouldn't have been doing in the gardens.

"YOU HAVE RETURNED."

"Just got back today actually." She explained.

"YET YOU SEEM TROUBLED." How Vorgoth managed to convey concern with such a deep booming voice and no face, she wasn't sure.

"I, um, didn't expect to come home to such a surprise. I like the gardens so I came here to think."

"YOU SPEAK OF THE CHILD. IT WOULD THRIVE UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF THE VOLKARINS."

It took Tessora a moment to realize that he was including her when he spoke of "The Volkarins". They had been married only a short time and she was still getting used to it.

"You really think so?" She asked genuinely.

"THE PROFESSOR IS ONE OF OUR BEST AND YOU LED THE FIGHT AGAINST GODS AND WON. ANY YOU TAKE UNDER YOUR WING WOULD BE MADE BETTER FOR IT."

Tess stared at the shadowy spirit for several unblinking seconds. "Vorgoth that is one of the nicest compliments I've ever heard. I could hug you."

"PLEASE RESTRAIN YOURSELF."

Tessora burst out laughing. "Thank you for making me feel better and giving me food for thought."

"THERE IS ANOTHER HAUNTING IN THE NECROPOLIS I MUST SEE TO. GOOD DAY, ROOK."

Before returning home, Tess, stopped by the graves of Emmrich's parents to say hello. She wonders if Emmrich knows that she talks to them when he isn't with her. Tess ran her fingers over the names engraved on the headstones. "I suppose a few more Volkarins in the world isn't a bad thing?"

Emmrich had dinner laid out for them when she got back to their apartment. Or rather the Necropolis chefs had delivered it. Neither of them were good cooks, as Lucanis will never let them forget.

"Dearest, I really am sorry to have blindsided you with this. I did not have a way of reaching you at sea. It was not my intent - "

Tessora held up her hand. "Emmrich, it's okay. I know you didn't do this on purpose. We should see if Archon Pavus can make us sending crystals like he and the Inquisitor have. Honestly, I would have told you to take care of the baby while you waited for the orphanage anyway."

Manfred was keeping the baby entertained while they ate. Tessora kept looking over at them and couldn't keep herself from smiling. That warm feeling she always gets around Emmrich and her found family was intensifying.

"Dorian is keeping their creation rather close to his chest. Let us talk of your latest adventure though. How fared your voyage?" Emmrich asked with interest.

She spent the rest of dinner telling him about her latest job for the Lords and he filled her in on his classes and the gossip around the Necropolis. The baby was content in Emmrich's arms and seemed to listen to him just as intently as she was. Tessora hadn't asked to hold him herself and Emmrich hadn't asked her either. Things were getting clearer in her mind but Tess was still a little afraid. She loved Domneth's kids and never had any issues beind around them, so why was this different? She ignored her inner voice, that always sounded like Isabela, saying "You know why." __

Tess woke up just as the baby started to fuss. She glanced over at Emmrich who was fast asleep. She got out of bed and went over to the makeshift crib. Tessora reached down and picked him up taking him into their sitting room. He was a light and squirmy thing. She changed him and wrapped him a blanket. Tessora sat down with him in Emmrich's favorite chair and he stared up at her with his brilliant blue eyes.

"I was abandoned too, you know." She spoke softly. "I grew up in a horrible place. Wondering why my mother left me there. Why she didn't want me. After a while, I stopped thinking about her and just hoped a new family would come and adopt me. They never came though."

The baby reached up a hand to her face and she tilted her chin down so he could touch it. She felt a tear roll down her cheek.

"I know that the orphanages here are different…better. But will you also grow up waiting for a family that might not come? I found a family with Emmrich and Manfred, maybe you can too, little one? Emmrich already is a wonderful father, but I don't know if I'd be a good mother. I had no good example. But…I'd make sure you had the things I didn't. You wouldn't have to fight for more food. You'd have clothes that are clean and fit you. You wouldn't have to sleep on a dirty floor."

He cooed and she couldn't help but melt at his sweet face. "And you'd learn how to sail a ship." She whispered conspiratorially. He yawned and she bundled him a little tighter in the blanket and quietly starting singing a shanty.

~~~~

Emmrich woke up to find his wife missing and the baby not in his crib. He immediately got up to search for them but was not prepared for the sight that greeted him in the sitting room: Tessora holding the baby in her arms and singing softly to him.

It made his heart swell to see it. He recognized the tune she was singing, it was the same one she sang for him when he had woken in the middle of the night seized by his dreadful fear while they still lived at the Lighthouse. They had only just started to explore their feelings at that point. She had heard him shouting and burst into his room, holding him until his shaking subsided and sat with him in front the fireplace with his head in her lap, softly stroking his hair. Then she sang to him. Soft and low, but beautiful. It calmed him so much that he thought perhaps she did have magic in her. But it was just Tessora.

She looked up as he entered the room and gave a crooked smile. The baby was asleep in her arms. "Darling, you should have woken me." He said quietly.

"You looked so peaceful. Besides I do know how to change a nappy." He must have looked surprised because she added, "Domneth has 5 kids. No one sets foot in their house without pitching in. His wife, Illia, showed me how."

Emmrich moved to kneel in front of her. "You know, Tess, for someone who thinks they aren't maternal, you certainly look like a natural right now."

Even in the low light, he could tell a blush was forming.

"When I was a kid, I waited and waited for a family to come take me away. To be wanted…to belong. No one ever came. We could keep him from all that. Be his family, I mean. Maybe?"

"What are you saying, darling?"

"We should adopt him." She said softly.

Emmrich couldn't help the tears that were forming in his eyes as he looked at her and the baby. "Darling, are you sure?"

She glanced down at the sleeping bundle in her arms. "Yeah, I am. Are you ready for a new kind of adventure, Professor?"

"Dearest, with you by my side, I am always ready."

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 7 - Final)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Summary ─ A couple of months after Jake’s (Evan’s friend) tragic accident left him fighting for his life in intensive care, Evan is spiralling, lost in despair, a shadow of his former self. Just as a sliver of good news about his condition offers a ray of hope, Y/N steps in, determined to bring some light into Evan’s shattered world. She starts with a seductive dance and builds to a night of passion. But Evan has a surprise—one that will change everything in a way Y/N never saw coming.

Warnings ─ Obscene language, lap dance, oral (both receiving), overstimulation, mild daddy kink, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl, missionary, extra smutty—like you like it.

Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5 | Read Part 6

Word count ─ 5.1K (I had a lot to say 🤫)

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Previously on: How I met Evan Peters (Part 6)

“W-what’s up, Jeremy?” he stutters, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s Jake,” Jeremy blurts out, his expression twisting into one of anguish. “He’s fallen off the roof.” Jeremy’s words hit like a punch to the gut, the colour draining from Evan’s face. The room goes deathly quiet, the weight of his words sinking in. The room spins as everything comes to a screeching halt.

Two months after Jake’s accident 

Thursday, 16:42 pm 

You settle into the cosy corner of his New York apartment, the city’s hustle muffled by the soft hum of the radiator. A rustic wooden desk hosting your work setup and a quirky lamp, which has seen better days but adds to the character, stands against the wall. A plush bean bag chair invites you to sink in while a baroque rug sprawls beneath your feet, and a bookshelf stuffed with books and random knick-knacks lurks by your side. Sunlight streams through light, breezy curtains, making it a perfect workspace for your remote routine. With Evan busy with press and meetings for the next few weeks, this place feels almost like a retreat—if only you could shake off the looming frustration of the Excel table before you.

You’d think by now you’d have mastered the art of not losing your shit at work, being the corporate girlie you are, while dealing with this stupid spreadsheet, but nope. Here you are, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf trying to blow down formulas that refuse to behave.

As you’re fighting and suffering through, your hand drifts toward your phone. You know how it goes. Brain’s fried, and next thing you know, you’re aimlessly scrolling through the endless pit of Instagram reels without even realising it. Well, this time it’s Evan’s name glowing like a beacon of your favourite “distraction,” and your stomach flutters, your heart racing.

Oh, hello, messages!

You open the chat, expecting a quick “I’ll be back in 10’, baby. Can’t wait to kiss you” text or maybe a meme about cats judging people (you know, standard fare). Instead, what do you find? A picture. But not just any picture. Oh no, this man, YOUR man, is standing there in a white tee, his pose giving swagger “yo” next to Todd McFarlane, a comic book legend. The whole shebang.

And here comes the string of messages:

“Babyyyy, look - Todd McFarlane in da house for the press conference!!” 

“he’s signed the Amazing Spider-Man hardcopy!!” 

“ill bring it home and we frame it ;)” 

“we’re going live.. tune in xx” 

“changed into the blazer and stripy tee you picked for me. Love you so ♥️”

Let’s pause here. Not at Todd McFarlane – who, mind you, is hands-down a god in his domain, but no. Your eyes, traitors that they are, keep sliding back to that picture of Evan.

Because damn.

Todd’s cool and all, but Evan in that white tee and messy curls? Where do you even begin? The man looks like he rolled out of bed straight into a photoshoot and decided to smoulder for no apparent reason. You know the one—that half-cocked sly smile that screams, “Yeah, I know what I’m doing to do, and you’re welcome.”

You catch yourself zooming in and drooling over him like a total goofball. The scrunched-up grimace. The luscious Tarzan hair. The way his eyes carry a hint of sadness and fatigue but with residues of that familiar spark he always has. It’s weird how something as simple as a picture can make your heart do that silly backflip thing over and over again after more than a year with him. 

Snap out of it, girl. Spreadsheet’s waiting. But no, instead of getting back to formulas, your brain takes a little detour down Memory Lane. Suddenly, you’re remembering the last time Evan was kneeling in front of you. Not in some adorable, “let me tie your shoes, princess” way, but more of an arousing “let me worship you, queen,” Roman Empire situation.

Oh, yeah. That night. 

You’d seized your throne aka that big armchair in the middle of the dimly-lit living room. And there he was, on his knees, completely surrendered to you. His tongue was lapping on your wet folds like you were the sweetest cake frosting he’d ever tasted. His slender fingers were plumping in and out of you in all the right spots as he slurped up your syrups and juices, sucking on your clit like it’s cherry on dessert.

His tongue would thrash and french kiss your puffy sobbing walls up near the throbbing bulb of your sensitive clit. You tugged on his hair, his brown curls wrapped around your fingers like reins as he pulled you apart, inch by inch. Your jaw tightened as his tongue and fingers mercilessly rutted into you, giving you crazed whiplash as you squirt, all while licking you clean with eager choked moans. 

Your body tremors and orgasmic vibrations were seismic… just like they are now as your cunt pulsates and aches for him, even though you’re sitting at the dining table, fully clothed and miles away from him. 

Funny how memories can sneak up on you like that, isn’t it?

But here’s the kicker. As much as you’d love for a repeat performance, that’s not where you guys are at these days. Not since Jake fell off the roof at the party he hosted at his place. You get it–one of Evan’s best friends is in a hospital bed, clinging to life while in a coma, and Evan’s drowning in his own sea of emotions and sorrow. The man is dragging so much weight on his shoulders right now. 

And you respect that. You really do. Your sex life has justifiably taken a backseat, but you’re not here to push or force him. What you have and share with him isn’t mere lust; you love him, and you acknowledge that he’s having it rough at the moment. You’ve been trying to be his rock, the one who keeps him grounded while he navigates the heavy blizzard of the tragedy. 

But you can’t help it. 

Sometimes, your mind slips back to those sizzling moments where your bodies speak in a language only you two comprehend. Because, let’s be real—he might be wearing the blazer you chose for him in the morning, but under all that fabric, you’re the one who gets to undress the real Evan. And if that’s not worth waiting for, you don’t know what is.

You sigh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, but you’ve left the spreadsheets and work far behind with all those cheeky little fantasies that gnaw on your brain. Still knee-deep in wet daydreams of Evan and his—well, *coughing* talents, when the universe decides to slap you in the face with reality. 

That “we’re going live, tune in xx” text blinks back at you from the chat, practically yelling to stop fantasising and actually be the supportive girlfriend you claim to be. 

Gasp.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Gasp again.

The press conference! You need to watch it. Like, now. 

You scramble up from the table so fast, you’d think the chair is lava, and launch into a desperate hunt for the TV remote. The remote is like a cryptid—always hiding in the most inconvenient places at the worst times. Last week? In the fridge. Don’t ask. Today? Who knows. You’re flipping couch cushions like you’re on an archaeological dig.

“WHERE IS IT?!” you yelp, your high-pitched voice bouncing off the walls like you’re a banshee in panic mode. Female rage core.

Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. It’s like the remote’s decided to pack its bags and set off to Narnia with no return ticket.

Curse you, technology masterminds.

Plan B. 

You rush back to your laptop, slide your fingers along the trackpad to wake it up, and—oh no, what’s this? Your whole screen’s been hijacked by the most evil of phrases:

Software Update: 30% Complete.

Are. You. For. Real. 

You stare at the loading bar like you can will it to go faster. Or pretend you’re not watching, so it speeds up. Smart but nah, that’s placebo—no such luck. This thing is moving slower than a Monday morning during rush hours, and if you wait for it, you’ll be watching Evan’s interview in the past tense or through his narration once he’s back home. 

You let out a huff that could probably power a small wind turbine and whip out your phone, praying to every deity that your Wi-Fi doesn’t fail you amidst crisis. 

“Come on, come on,” you mutter through gritted teeth, frantically tapping apps like your fingers are on caffeine overload. And just when you think someone is playing another cruel trick on you—boom, there it is. The live stream. 

The screen lights up, and there comes baby Evan on stage, looking all sleek and profesh in his blazer (you knew the combo with the stripes underneath would work wonders *proud stylist smiling*). He’s sitting on a stool along with his co-stars, all of them gathered in this massive amphitheatre for their upcoming movie press tour. 

He’s got the mic in his hand, finishing up a sentence with that smooth, husky tone. You know, that voice that sounds like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. But there’s also the twist of dorky humour and the cute brow furrows he taps into when he’s either totally in his element or way too awkward. 

The interviewer gives him a nod, then sighs. Your stomach drops.

The next question is about Jake, as he’s guy well known for scripting some of the most beloved TV shows. If there were a Hall of Fame for TV writers, his star would be as big as a small planet. He’s adored by fandoms for his wit and creativity, and now you’re all grappling with the fallout from his misfortune.

You can see the shift in Evan’s face from media charm to something… darker, melancholic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, but you know him. That tiny flicker of anguish behind his eyes filters through the cracks.

Evan takes a sharp breath and clears his throat. “Yeah, Jake was moved from LA and remains in ICU here in New York,” he admits, voice steady but edged with quiet vulnerability. “But there’s… a... there’s a glimmer of hope. He moved his hand today.”

For a second, the world stops spinning. Did he just say—? He moved?!

Your heart does a somersault, and you can’t help it—you cheer and clap right along with the audience, even though you’re alone in the living room in your mismatched socks, overstretched yoga shorts, and messy bun. Who cares, honestly? Jake moved his hand. 

Evan lets the crowd’s enthusiasm bubble up for a second before he delicately taming it. “It’s good news,” he continues, his voice like a fuzzy blanket, soothing yet cautious. “But let’s not start planning the parade just yet—there’s a long road ahead for him. We’ll have to see how his health evolves from here. I just wanted to share this little nugget of hope. His family’s already spreading the word, and they gave me the green light to pass it on to all of you.”

There’s a tightness in his voice, and you can tell he’s got a fortress built around his emotions, probably fighting not to let it crumble in front of all those people and cameras. Your baby’s always been strong like steel this way, the type who carries everyone’s baggage on his shoulders without ever letting on how heavy it is. 

You sit there, phone in hand, staring at his face on the screen. There’s so much going on behind those eyes, and you know he probably feels like crap underneath that calm exterior. 

You wish you could reach through the screen and just be there with him in a “I’ve got you, you’re not alone” kind of way. You’ve been weathering this storm together, and it’s been tough as hell. It’s taken everything in him just to stay afloat, but he’s doing it. He’s really doing it...

There’s something about post-work Thursdays that sends you into this frantic, impulsive must-clean-everything-in-sight mode. Not that Evan cares if there’s a pile of laundry in the corner or if the dishes are threatening to stage a rebellion in the sink, but still. He doesn’t expect you to tackle it all just because you’re working fully from home; he can do it himself, but you want the place to look neat and tidy. You know, like “I have my life together and didn’t just spend the last two hours binge-watching cooking videos on YouTube” level of very demure, very mindful adulthood.

So here you are, in full-on cleaning tornado mode—scrubbing the counter with the kind of intensity that could probably burn calories—when your ears perk at the rustling sound. 

That magical jingle of keys. The ignition. The click of the door unlocking.

Baby Evan’s home.

You drop the sponge like it’s on fire and just bolt. You don’t even think. It’s pure instinct, like you’re a puppy who heard the treat jar open. Your pulse leaps, your feet fly, and before you know it, you’re flinging the front door open just as he steps in. And there he is.

Your man. Your whole heart.

He’s got his arms full—takeout bags in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder, looking more mouth-watering than anything that could possibly be in those containers. His hair’s a little ruffled, his shirt rumpled from the day, but to you, he might as well be walking straight out of a rom-com.

“EVIEEEE!” you squeal, pouncing at him with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high.

“Whoa!” he chuckles heartily, catching you mid-air. He spins you around even though you can sense the stiffness in his body as he battles not to drop the dinner. He’s out of breath, but he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go. His backpack slides down his arm, and for a second, you’re just tangled together—glued around him, his hands grasping on you firmly.

“Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” he teases, his voice hoarse from the long day. But you can see it in his eyes—he’s just as hyped to be back in your little cocoon as you are. 

“You have no idea,” you breathe, and before you can utter anything else, his lips are on yours, kissing you like he’s been starved for weeks. You’re pretty sure you hear the bags crinkle between you two, but whatever… they can wait.

It’s not just a kiss. Oh no, this is the you-just-got-kissed-senseless kind that says, “I’m never letting you out of my reach again.” It’s deep and sloppy, and you feel it all the way down your toes. Little lewd moans escape your bodies as your tongues greet each other, swirling around in a lustful dance. He tastes like toffee, baby powder, warmth, comfort, and home.

You melt into each other, completely forgetting about the bags or the fact that you’ve still got soap on your hands. You twirl faster together as his hands mischievously squeeze your ass, making you giggle into his mouth.

“I was counting the hours to get to you, Y/N, and time was a total bitch today,” he grumbles, and it’s a husky purr near the nape of your neck. Your plump lips curl into an “awh, my poor baby” pout, cupping his cheeks in your palms as you swarm his face with little pecks. 

When he finally sets you down, you’re both grinning like idiots. Your heart’s doing cartwheels, and your stomach feels like you’ve swallowed a whole bunch of butterflies. You missed him. Not just having him around, but all the little things tied in—his laugh, his hands on you, the way he stares at you like you’re a precious gem.

Closing the door behind you, you pace together towards the kitchen, and get the itch to drop the question, “Did Jake really move?” Your voice is hopeful, but there’s a little tinge of fear there too. You know how much this means to Evan, so you need to tread about cautiously.

He pauses, chucking his backpack aside before turning to you. His eyes soften, and he nods, stepping closer. His hands find your waist again, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Yeah. He really did.”

Before you can even process the relief, Evan’s lips are on yours again, soft whimpers rolling off him. This time, the kiss is slower, more tender like silky ribbons on your mouth. His lips trail from your mouth down to your neck, his breath tingly against your heated skin. “Gosh, how much I needed you today,” he whispers between kisses, his voice dense with emotion as he presses his mouth lower, toward the neckline of your sports bra. His fingers gently graze your sides and rest on your hip bones before massaging your ass, and your breath hitches.

You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension melt out of him as his body leans into yours. “Me too,” you huff out, because honestly, you feel like you’ve been holding your breath all day, just waiting for him to come home.

But then you pull away slightly, the thought of Jake scratching the back of your mind. “Can we go see him now?”

Evan sighs, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath warm and steady. “Not tonight,” he exhales, taking a couple of steps back. “It’s just family. They wanna keep it low with the visits.”

You shake your head in acknowledgment, nervously biting your fingernail. You get it—you really do—but there’s still that little sting of disappointment tugging at your chest. “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, glancing over at you again as he tears the bags apart and unpacks the food. “We’ll try tomorrow afternoon. His family’s still adjusting, but I’ll talk to them.”

The relief that washes over you is like a pleasant, summer breeze, calming your frayed nerves. Tomorrow. You let out a breathy, “Okay, great,” your shoulders finally loosening. As you approach him to help dispose of the bags, Evan’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in one quick, playful motion, pulling you flush against him. 

You barely have time to gasp before his lips crash against yours, his tongue barging in your mouth without warning, assaulting yours in tantalising ways that are better left unsaid. You loop your arms around the back of his head and drag him closer, your tits cushioning his shredded chest.

“Don’t leave, please,” he hushes, his lips caressing yours. His voice is huskier now, a bit rougher around the edges, and you can feel the warmth from his body merging with yours. His free hand slips down to the supple flesh of your waist again, fingers curling just under the hem of your top to tuck underneath.

You smirk against his mouth, tilting your head slightly. “You know, we do live together, sir” you tease, playfully pinching the tip of his nose.

“That’s a reminder in case you forgot,” he quips, nuzzling into the slope of your neck. His broad shoulders are curved over you from behind like a shield, throwing every organ in your body on high alert, your heart drumming violently.

He pulls back, and before you can react, he gives your ass a quick, cheeky smack that makes you jump. Your mouth drops open in surprise, but he just grins smugly, like he’s fully aware of what he’s done, and he’s proud of it.

“Hey!” you whimper, swatting at him, but there’s no denying your pulse thumps fiercely.

“What?” he squeaks sheepishly, throwing his hands up in exasperation, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “You look too good to keep my hands off. Plus, guess who was stuck in my head the whole day. Hint—it’s not the burgers,” he fires back, waggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes comically, but your heartbeat is up now. There’s something about the way he’s staring down at you—like he’s hungry, and it’s not just for the takeout. You notice it when he leans in again, this time with a heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. His lips trace a line of open mouthed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. Your fingers twist around his shirt, gripping it, as his hands roam a little lower, tugging you closer until you can feel every ounce of him pressed against you.

“Speaking of burgers, if food’s your love language, then you’re speaking mine fluently,” you chuckle, but the second you catch the look Evan gives you—whoa, buddy. Food’s officially second on his menu. His eyes are a pair of flamed balls, fixed onto you like you’re the main course, dessert, and everything in between—like you’re the most appetising thing in the room.

And, let’s just say, he’s a lot more “warmed up” than usual. His kisses grow deeper, rougher, and the way he’s touching you are the real giveaway… The man’s practically simmering.

And oh, honey, you’re more than pleased to help him get away tonight. So, in your most casual, not-at-all-planned-in-your-head-already way, you decide tonight’s the night to put up a show… Literally. 

You let your hands glide down his chest, feeling every erratic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” you murmur softly, your fingers dipping lower until you’re just hovering over his belt buckle, toying with the metal. “How about I pamper you tonight?”

You let your tongue slide over his upper lip, and damn if he doesn’t shudder. His eyes flash with thrill and curiosity—mixed with something darker, more primal. “Oh?” His voice comes out in this sexy rasp like he’s intrigued but still playing along, letting you lead for now.

You bite back a smug grin. Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.

With a playful wink, you step back, making sure to drag your hand across his chest one last time. “Sit tight, big boy,” you purr, backing away with just the right amount of sway in your hips. “This show’s just getting started.”

You saunter down the hallway, feeling his gaze burning a path down your back. You can feel your heart pounding as you head into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. The second it clicks shut, you lean against it for a second to catch your breath. The adrenaline makes your hands quiver a little as you rummage through the drawer.

There it is: that little black number you’ve been saving for a night just like this. 

A lacy, black lingerie piece, sheer in all the right places, hugging curves like it was made for you. You shimmy it on, adjusting the straps, making sure everything’s sitting just so. 

A quick glance in the mirror as you set your hair free from the bun—tousled, sexy-but-effortless vibe, check. The lace hints at more than it conceals, and your lips curl into a slow smile. Oh, yeah, he’s done for. You toss on a silky robe, leaving it untied, the lace peeking through just enough to give him a preview. A little fragrance spritz and a light touch of your lipstick, and you’re sorted.

When you open the door and walk back into the living room, you find him perched on the couch, his eyes snapping to you like magnets, intense and feral, as you come into view. His posture is stiff, knuckles blanched as they grip the cushions like he’s holding on for dear life. His pupils, wide and black with want, devouring the sight of you as if you are something forbidden, yet irresistible.

His gaze lingers, darkening when it catches on the soft peek of skin where your robe parts. He swallows hard, audibly, and when you let the silky fabric slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet, his jaw clenches—hard (hint: and not just his jaw).

The low light of the room encases you as it casts a sensual glow over the room, deepening the shadows and sharpening the tension between you two like a blade.

“F-fuck,” he wheezes, like the breath’s been knocked clean and shallow out of him. He tries to maintain some semblance of self-control, but the sharp despair in his voice betrays him. He sinks deeper into the couch, spreading his legs slightly, shooting you this look that’s pure, unfiltered desire as he drinks you in. 

You want to torture him, enjoying how his gaze rakes over every inch of you, so you slowly strut over to him. Each step is deliberate, your hips swinging in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that’s nothing short of tempting. His composure slips just a little more—a twitch in his jaw, a harsh swallow, the way his chest rises and falls, faster with every second. His eyes flick down to the curves, then back up to your scandalous tits before snapping back to your face.

The heat from his body radiates into yours as you come to a stop, your thighs rubbing against his knees, and his hands instinctively move to grab your waist. But you’re not giving in that easily. “Uh-uh,” you purr, wagging a teasing finger at him, your lips forming a sly smile. 

His fingers freeze, but his eyes burn with frustration as you stretch, purposely slow, letting your ass hover just above his lap. The unmistakable press of his hardness through his jeans sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can’t help but smirk. “I’m in charge tonight, remember?” 

Evan lets out a furious groan, his head falling back defeated against the cushions, hands flexing in silent restraint. The power you hold over him tonight? Oh, it’s delicious, addictive. You throw him one last, seductive glance before turning around, giving him the full view of your barely-there lingerie—delicate straps criss-crossing down your back and framing your ass like a gift he’s dying to unwrap.

You hear as a muttered curse slips past his lips, low and guttural. He’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even actually started yet. You scroll through your phone’s playlist, cueing up the perfect song for the occasion. The room is soon filled with the slow, sultry beats of Beyoncé’s ‘Dance For You,’ wrapping around both of you like a spell. You start slow, letting the music guide your hips, rolling in hypnotic circles. 

You saunter towards a nearby chair, aka your prop, bending over it as your body flows like liquid heat to the beat. His eyes religiously follow every motion, waiting, his breathing growing heavier like he’s holding on a thread with every flick of your hips, every arch of your spine.

You roam your fingers up my body, teasingly stopping at your hips before dragging them higher, skimming over your breasts. With agonising slowness, you untie your bra, holding his attention and eye contact hostage. The second the lace slips off your body, you toss it in his direction with a devilish grin. He catches it with a hungry grunt, burying his face in the fabric like a man possessed, his smirk turning malicious as he inhales deeply.

“God, you’re killing me,” he groans, eyes exploding with thirst for you. The sight of him, chest heaving, lips slightly parted—oh, it’s so sadistically satisfying. 

You’re gonna make him beg for it. 

Leaning forward, just enough for your bare breasts to graze his chest, you bring your lips up to his ear, hot breath fanning the side of his face, “Good,” voice dripping with a promise for more. You pull back just a fraction, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m just getting started.” 

You circle behind him, and he twists his head, tracking your every move, but you’re not finished (no pun intended).

“Please, Y/N. Come sit on my lap, or my face…just—” His voice breaks, raw and pleading, his body squirming as he shifts, desperate for release. The power thrumming through your veins is out of this world, and you bite your bottom lip knowing you’ve got him right on the edge. 

You start with the lightest touch, dragging your fingers over the hard lines of his shoulders, tracing down the sculpted muscles of his chest, feeling the shudder that runs through him as you slide lower. Your fingers brush over the taut muscles of his thighs.

His stiff length twitches beneath your touch, his growl of desire low and animalistic. His hands stretch again, desperate to reach for you, but you chuckle softly, knowing he’s at your mercy tonight. His usual command is gone, flipped on its head, and that hunger in his eyes tells you he’s loving every second of it.

The music pulses through the room as you circle back around to him. You bend low, your curves on full display, just close enough for him to grab a handful of your ass with an eager groan that rumbles through his chest. He finally pulls you into him, lips attacking your skin, trailing down your spine with feverish kisses as he peels your thong off. His breath brushes against your slit and clit as he descends, his lips so dangerously close it sends your body humming with desire. 

He can smell your fertility; the pheromones emitting from your body intensify his animal instinct to breed. His breathing is erratic now, his body practically vibrating with need to take you, but you still “hold the leash.”

He breaths come out in heavy bursts as he watches you straddle him, knees planted on either side of his hips. You grind down slowly, feeling the friction as you move in slow, sensual circles. His hands latch onto your thighs, his grip harsh and desperate, leaving marks that make your skin tingle. But still, you don’t let him seize control. Not yet.

Leaning in, you pepper steamy kisses along his neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath your lips, your teeth tracing the sharp edge of his jawline. You tenderly bite at his earlobe, and he growls lowly, his hands spasming with despair to grab you, but even then, you won’t allow him to touch you the way he wants.

“The more you resist, the harder I’ll fuck you,” he warns with a hiss, his voice dark. It’s a threat and a vow all rolled into one that sends a heat pooling between your thighs.

“Perfect,” you retort in a hushed whisper against the shell of his ear, lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth—teasing but not quite giving in. “That’s the idea, baby.” 

You’re serving cunt, and he knows it well.

With a slow, calculated slide, you lower yourself down his body, your hands stripping him of his blazer as you go. You let your hands trace over his thighs and the hardened, erected mound in between. Kneeling between his legs, you lock eyes with him, watching the way his breath stutters, anticipation swirling in the air. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, your fingers stroking his length just enough to drive him nuts as he lets out a shaky gasp.

You pop the button on his jeans and pull down the zipper with your teeth. The second you free him from the tight confines of denim, his aching cock springs out, pulsing with raw desire for you, the fabric of his boxers barely able to contain him.

You glance up at him again with a smug smile before leaning down, your lips brushing along his head. His hips buck instinctively, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. But you take your time, taunting him with light flicks of your tongue. 

Finally, you wrap your lips around him, licking his sensitive red tip with the end of your tongue. You swirl it around and lap up the shiny little pearls of precum that keep seeping out in his pent-up arousal. “F-fuuuck, Y/N. You’re gonna make me blow in a sec,” he grunts out with a hitched voice as you take his whole size in your mouth. 

Your eyes flash up at him, filled with mischief as you take him deeper, your lips stretching to fit his full size. “Isn’t that the point?” you murmur, your voice on a seductive octave. “I want you to cum hard... fucking hard all over me.”

Your fingers trace the thick vein along the underside of his shaft before squeezing his hardness and pumping with a fast and firm tempo. Your hand works in sync with your mouth as you suck the upper half of his delicious cock, pulling him in and out, each movement making him gasp and buckle uncontrollably.

His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, muscles tensing. Some inaudible drabble slips off him as he thrusts into your mouth. Pools of saliva are pouring out of the edges of your lips, your eyebrows knitted together as you keep gagging at his cock hitting the back of your throat. You push further, your lips tight around him as you meet his gaze once more, your eyes wild with intensity. His fingers weave into your hair, but he doesn’t force you—he doesn’t have to. You’re in the saddle tonight, guiding him closer to his magical release.

Your hand reaches for his, fingers intertwining as your head bobs up and down on him, earning little moans of delight from his chest. He’s a hot mess; trembling under the weight of the pleasure you’re generously giving him as you slide your mouth down his dick, your cheeks hollowed in a blend of sensual sucks and frantic pumps. 

The sound of you gagging, the wet slurp of your lips, and the way you glance up at him so innocently, brow furrowed with effort, has him reeling. “Ahh, yeah, keep going,” he breathes out, biting his bottom lip.

He gets a good yet gentle grasp of your hair, thrusting into your mouth in shallow, desperate strokes, but you maintain control, building him up slowly, methodically. He adores your lips, especially the way they loop around his dick and release these mewling sounds against it.

But now, his whole body is shuddering, his cock jerking inside, and you can feel the tell-tale sign he’s about to bust his load in your mouth. The blood rushes to his dick, draining any sane thought and cell in his brain, leaving him driven only by his primal instinct and craving for climax.

You slide onto his throbbing cock once more, gobbling on it like the insatiable whore you are. He presses your head down and keeps you there for a few seconds. As you detach from his member to draw a breath, his body immediately locks up, his abs contracting, and then—he’s there. 

His head snaps back as he erupts shivering whimpers of your name, painting your face with copious amounts of his thick, white, and deliciously salty cum, his release spilling over your lips. 

You open your mouth, tongue stretched out, catching the last drops as you pump him, milking every ounce of his release. His cum drips down your chin, and you let your fingers swipe off the remnants from your face, licking them off slowly, savouring the taste. Nothing goes to waste as you look up at him, lips wet, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of his orgasm.

“You’re one hungry bitch, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice strained, still shaky from the intensity of his high. He laughs weakly, dragging his thumb across your cheek with a tender caress, though his hard-on still convulses, not quite ready to soften. He winces as he tries to adjust himself, zipping up his jeans with difficulty, but the look of satisfaction on his face is unmistakable.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, licking your lips as you flash him a sly, knowing smirk. His chest rises and falls heavily, his face reddish, eyes droopy, still lost in the haze of afterglow. 

Without wavering your eyes from him, you crawl up and climb to his lap, feeling your pussy drip with every inch of his skin that presses against you. He ogles your naked torso like a dog drooling over the bone. You position yourself just right, his semi-clothed swollen tip nudging against your slippery entrance.

“I am hungry for you, baby,” you purr with a pout as your fingertips draw lazy circles over the ridges of his abs. His eyes darken, filled with a renewed lust as he watches you, licking his lips like a predator eyeing its prey.

Letting out a dark, throaty chuckle, he wastes no time—he hammers his lips against yours, shoving his tongue deep into your mouth and kissing you with reckless abandon. His hands greedily paw at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging them just hard enough to make you moan against his lips. 

The arousal between you is electric as your body grinds against his, the friction sending sparks flying through you both; it’s like static rubbing off against each other, and you are about to feel yourself short circuit any minute. 

His hands hook around your ass cheeks before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp in pleasure, the sound echoing through the room. You press your lips harder against his with a mewl, tongues tangling.

“Evan,” you hush out between sloppy kisses, barely coherent amidst loud teeth smacking and clashing together. All thanks to his fingers dipping between your legs, teasing your clit with maddening eights as he grins victoriously, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you.

“My slut’s ready for me?” he hums, giving your ass another smack, the sound of flesh against flesh making you quiver with delight. Your hips swerve on his raging boner, the body-against-body friction igniting an ever-powerful spark within you both. To say you’re a ‘mere’ tease for him is an understatement. 

“You’re doing so good, my baby girl,” he gruffs, and his rough, veiny hands glide possessively toward your rocking waist as you begin to rub yourself against his thigh, slowly... teasingly. Every roll of your hips has him biting his lip, his eyes glued to the way your body moves against him.

“You’re in night care, baby boy, remember?” you hush, your voice laced with dominance as you lift your hips, fingers deftly undoing his trousers again. Your hand wraps around his cock, positioning him at your slick slit. Slowly, achingly slow, you sink down onto him, inch by inch. The stretch forces a moaning gasp out of you as your body adjusts to accommodate his size. Fiery electricity surges through you both, and he hisses watching as your pulsating pussy desperately tries to swallow his cock.

His hands tighten on your hips as you take him deeper, your nails digging into his biceps when he bottoms out, filling you completely. The fullness makes you shudder, your breath leaving you in a jagged burst as his tip presses snugly against your cervix. The deep groan that escapes his throat vibrates through your body, making you clench around him involuntarily, his hips stilling cautiously.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, languid circles, setting a rhythm that’s equal parts torture and bliss for both. His hands grip you harder, leaving faint red imprints on your flushed flesh, but he doesn’t push or pull—he’s letting you have the upper hand in riding him, his eyes dark and hungry as he admires you, mouth parted. The way he’s looking at you though? Like you’re a goddess descending from the heavens just for him. Oh, that does something to you.

“Look at you, baby. So fucking gorgeous, taking me like that,” he murmurs, pride and desire dripping from every word. A crooked smile is etched on his face hearing the sloshing whines squawk out of your poor needy folds as they cling to his cock. Every thrust, every grind, every little whimper from your lips makes his large member throb inside you, stretching you deliciously as you plop up and down on him.

You lean down, sealing your lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, your tongues twirling in a messy dance. It’s all teeth and moans again as he hits that sweet spot deep inside. It’s the type of kiss that makes time stop, like nothing else exists except for the raw, primitive connection between you two. 

His hands trail up your bare back, fingers tangling in your hair, keeping you close as you grind down harder. Your bodies move in sync, perfectly attuned to each other, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you with every movement. His eyes dart down to your bouncing breasts and toned stomach, but you quickly grab his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “Nu-uh,” you whisper against his lips, your voice tinged with authority. “Eyes on mine, boy.”

He lets off a hearty chuckle, even going so far as to wriggle your ass back against him. “You feel so damn amazing, baby,” he huffs, voice rough with desire, talking over your whiny babbles. He cranes his neck to kiss the edge of your jaw before tenderly nipping at the skin.

Panting heavily, you exhale, “I could do this all night.” Your hips move faster, sliding up and down his thick length, the friction sending bolts of euphoria through you. His breathing grows ragged, and you can feel the tension rising, winding tighter and tighter. You’re so soft—sweet gummy flesh compressing around him with such ease, wringing him tight like a vice. He chokes when your pussy flutters—the way you clamp down on his dick makes his body go slack and his eyes roll back.

He lets out a low groan, barely holding himself together as your walls squeeze around him. “Thaaat’s it, hngh. This pussy knows it’s place,” he grouses, and your eyes widen, realising the shift in dynamic—he’s reclaimed control, already winning ground, sis. Before you know it, his plumpish tip drills further between each corner of your dripping cunt. Your small sobs amplify as he starts to move beneath you, his hips thrusting up harder, making your entire body quake with each deep pound.

“I love fucking you so much,” he grunts, nearly whining, his head tilting back as his cock jerks inside you.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Evan’s grip tightens on your hips. With one fluid motion, he lifts you off him, his arms hook beneath your thighs. You gasp, caught off guard, your body hanging in his grasp as he stands up, practically growling with primal need.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, sending a bolt of excitement straight down your spine.

Without hesitation, he spins you around, carrying you across the room, your legs instinctively bundling around his waist. You’re in such a sweet, sexual brain fog that it takes you a second to get what’s going on. With one swift movement, he sweeps his arm across the dining table, sending glasses, cutlery, and whatever else is there crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony of clatters.

“Evan!” You giggle dazedly, hands clasping on his shoulders as he sets you down on the table, the cold wood against your back making you shiver—but not nearly as much as the fire blazing in his eyes.

He leans over you and shushes you with a kiss, his lips brushing against yours as he pushes your legs apart. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t have time to argue—not that you want to. He grabs your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the table, his body wedged firmly between your legs. There’s no remorse in his eyes—just pure, animalistic desire. One hand snakes under your ass, the other glides down your left thigh, lifting it effortlessly over his broad shoulder. The way he leans down and looks at you now, almost in slow motion... gosh. It’s like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed… like nothing else matters but taking you right here, right now, and it sets your entire body on fire.

He wants to smash, and he’ll get it.

The scent of your cunt is intoxicating, stirring every primal instinct inside Evan that he knows he must keep in check. He draws his hips back slowly, only his tip nestling inside you, then jams just once inside you. Your whole body jumps at the impact, your pleading eyes boring deep into his, a breathy hum punched out of you. He pulls back and slams forward again, growling through his teeth. Your pillowy walls are cuddling him, his heavy balls aching to be drained, eager to breed the fertile womb his tip is wedged against.

His hands roam up your thighs, grasping you like he can’t get enough. With each slow, deliberate stroke, he sinks deeper into you, your body arching off the table in response. The sensation of him rutting in and out of your sobbing sex is overwhelming—every movement has your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the edge of the table, desperate for some kind of anchor.

Your orgasm is building again, fast and intense. As the pressure inside you give way to climax, tears cascade down your burning cheeks, your features contorted in ecstasy. 

“E-Evan, I can’t take it! T-too much!”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Say please, baby,” he grits out, his voice low and commanding. His hips thrust into yours harder, making you lose all sense of logic. Your mind is blank, mouth hanging open, unable to form words as the pleasure consumes you.

“P-please,” a pained mewl tumbles out of you, and that single word tips him off the edge. His hips stutter, and with a series of deep thrusts along with a carnal chant of “ah, ah, ah, ah” pouring from his lips, he gushes inside you—creamy gooey ropes of cum dribble into you, not missing at all.

He’s panting heavily, hips jerking involuntarily as he empties himself, filling you to the brim with thick, sticky cum.

His groans of satisfaction blend with your breathy moans as you cling to him, feeling his weight stick against your skin like it’s adhesive. You bite into the soft skin of his neck, muffling your whimpers as he continues to thrust lazily, drawing out every last bit of his orgasm.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice low and raspy, each word filled with the same raw desire that’s coursing through your veins. “I wanna feel you.”

That’s it—the words, the intensity, the feeling of him completely owning your body, claiming you in a way that makes your head spin—have you on a chokehold. You suck in lungfuls of air as the incoming pangs of orgasmic waves smash over you with impossible force. You can’t hold back the loud moans spilling from your lips, your body arching up and writhing beneath him as you come hard, your walls spasming around his cock.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand gently stroking your cheek, his breath hot against your lips. Your body convulses uncontrollably in his arms as he rides out your climax with you, his cock still throbbing inside your over-sensitive core. 

As you come down, your breaths laboured and uneven, he buries his head to your chest, his mouth warm against your skin as his kisses travel down to your boobs, his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. Each subtle touch sends aftershocks of pleasure through you, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

You huff, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “You’re a menace, you know that?” you whisper, still trying to catch your breath. But he’s not done yet. You giggle softly as he moves lower, planting tingly smoochies to your skin, his breath like a warm breeze against your thighs.

“You smell like honey… I wanna taste you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the soft curve of your inner thigh. His fingers part your sloping folds, spreading you open for him as he watches the glistening cum leak from your swollen pussy. His primitive need to eat you up tests his sense of control. 

His tongue plunges between your labia, stretching them up with a slow and deliberate lick. Your thighs quiver around his head in the aftershocks of your climax, straining moans and semi-shrieks falling from your lips as his tongue dives deeper between your folds. The wet sound of him slurping up the mix of your juices and his cum is obscene, but it only drives you wilder, especially as he mumbles the moto, “Y/N... Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Your fingers lace in his drenched thick, curly brown locks, holding him in place. The untamed animal inside him is finally sated, fed well at the meal between your thighs. His teeth sink ever-so-lightly into the plump pout of your lips, and you can’t stop the desperate little wails flipping from your throat. 

Your eager pussy can’t help but drool. Streams of your slick cascade down between the crevices of your thighs and coat the entirety of his fingers. With a rosy flat tongue, he pads and licks you clean, taking every few seconds to pull his fingers in—only to push them right back out. As he re-enters, he pokes against your g-spot again, and again, and again…

That’s all it takes for the sharp twisting coil to snap within you for the second time, and your thighs turbulently shake within his feeble grasp. “Fuck, fuck,” you choke out, your breath coming in hollow bursts as you feel his hushed praises and loving words ghost against your clit. You can’t stay still for the life of you—it’s as if every muscle in your body rips apart once you come into his mouth, your jaw slackened and your eyes widened.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” you ramble, and Evan’s still flicking his tongue against your sobbing slit.

You’re making a mess out of him, and he’s still eating it up—the dedication. His chin got such a pretty glimmer of shine all thanks to your slick running down. With an echoing pop, he slides his fingers off your pussy, stretching his digits further apart just to see how your sap glues against them. The shaking from your multiple orgasmic release keeps on, the ringing in your ears never subsiding. 

“Mmph, Y/N. So beautiful,” he cries out, his voice cracking with emotion as he presses a kiss to your swollen, sensitive lips. Your sweet slickness smears against his stubble even more, but he couldn’t care less. All that matters is you, lying there beneath him, glowing with the outcome of your pleasure. 

Evan’s gaze lingers on you for a long moment, his chest still heaving as he melts in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, thoroughly wrecked from the intensity of what just happened. His hand gently strokes your thigh, trailing up and down in soothing circles as the both of you come down from the high together.

Propping your weight on your elbows, you stare down on him, a lazy grin playing at the corners of your lips. You pull him up for a sloppy, rough kiss. Your fingers pinch on his well-defined jaw as he rests on top of her. You can feel his stiff length press against her stomach, and it feels great. 

You reach up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “You really know how to leave a girl breathless,” you mumble teasingly, though your voice is barely above a whisper, still catching.

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling his cheek against your palm. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, and you giggle softly, the sound light and airy.

You lay there for a while, the after-sex haze still buzzing through your veins. Evan’s sprawled out on the sofa, shirtless. His hair is all tousled, looking like some kind of model from a cologne ad—except sexier, and definitely more accessible. You watch him, feeling a dopey grin spread across your face. This man… God, this man.

You pull yourself up, snuggling into that familiar blue blanket from the edge of the couch—the one you always steal when it’s movie night, or when you’re feeling cosy after a particularly intense workout (aka “fuck time”).

“You look like a smurf burrito,” Evan quips, his hand lazily draped across his abs as he watches you pace around the room.

You snort, cuddling deeper into the blanket. “Better than looking like a sweaty, shirtless disaster.” You throw him a wink and a brow waggle, but honestly, the view is prime real estate right now. That man should charge admission.

He smirks smugly, running a hand through his messy curls. “Sweaty, shirtless disaster, huh? I was under the impression you were enjoying said disaster inside you just a few minutes ago.”

“Touché,” you giggle as you flop down the sofa, letting your head fall back against the armrest. “But the jury’s still out on whether I enjoyed it or tolerated it.”

“Oh, is that so?” His eyebrow quirks, and that playful gleam you love so much flickers back in his eyes. He leans forward, crawling towards you on the sofa with that predator-like grace, his hands landing on either side of your bundled-up self.

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but your heart's already doing flips at the way he’s looking at you. Damn, those eyes.

“Hmm. Well, maybe I should just—” Evan dips down, his lips grazing your ribcage, making you gasp. You wriggle away playfully, pulling the blanket up higher as if it’s some kind of armour.

“Okay, okay! I loved it. Five stars on Yelp, glowing review and a side of fries.” You’re laughing now, barely able to keep up the act.

Evan chuckles triumphantly, that warm, rumbling sound that makes your pulse leap in your throat. “Five stars? Well, that must make me the Michelin Man of love.”

“Please,” you laugh, “the only thing you’re qualifying for is most likely to be found with a pizza slice in hand.”

His grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Well, speaking of pizza, how about we start planning our wedding menu? I’m thinking pepperoni and extra cheese for the wedding cake. You know, something to make the guests feel like they’re in a pizzeria.”

You roll your eyes, giggling at his ridiculousness. “So, pizza-themed wedding, huh? What are we going to serve? Breadsticks as the bouquet?”

“Absolutely! And the best part? I’ll have a pepperoni ring!” He starts mimicking a ring toss, and you can’t help but crack up.

“Oh wow, my future husband is a real romantic,” you say, shaking your head in mock disbelief.

But then Evan leans in closer, his expression turning serious, and you feel the air shift. “But really, I want to make sure I don’t just slice into this whole ‘life together’ thing. I want to do it right. So, how about we order that wedding cake now because…” He reaches into his pocket, and your heart skips a beat as he pulls out a small velvet box.

You narrow your eyes in suspicion as you sit up. “What are you doing? Is this some kind of prank”

“Well, not exactly a prank. Unless you think proposing is some kind of joke.”

Your heart stops.

“What?” The word barely squeaks out, and you’re pretty sure your brain just exploded. Did he—did he just say proposing?

Evan’s mouth pulls into this soft smile, and before you know it, he’s dropping to one knee on the sofa. “I mean, I’ve got the ring and all that the protocol requires,” he mutters and your eyes bulge, mouth agape. “...and I don’t want to waste another minute from making you my wife!”

Your heart stops.

You leap up from the sofa, shaky hands flying to your mouth, shock flooding your system. The blanket almost slips off, eyes wide and heart pounding like you’re on the world’s most chaotic and steepest rollercoaster. Did he—did he also just say wife? “Are you serious?”

“Y/N,” he starts, his voice a little shaky but full of that Evan confidence that always makes you feel like the only person in the room, “I’ve been through a lot lately. We both have. But the one constant through it all—through the tough days and the good ones, the sleepless nights and the mornings I wake up next to you—is that I want every single day to be with you.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this.

“From the moment I saw you in that club, I never looked away. We started off with a bang, quite literally, but I’ve felt like I’ve known you my whole life and won the love lottery. You’re my jackpot. The reason I smile—even when I feel like I’ve hit every bump on the road. You make even the ordinary feel extraordinary, and I want to make this last forever.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this. Your pulse hammers so loud you swear he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“So here I am, making it official, ready to take a gamble on the biggest bet of my life. Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man on the planet?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a subtle and stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart throbs so hard, you’re sure it’ll burst out of your chest.

“You drive me crazy in the best way possible. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, my favourite person to order burgers with. I want to spend the rest of my life making you laugh, making you mad, and maybe every now and then... sweeping plates off the table to get to you faster.” He smirks, his eyes twinkling.

“Evan!” you gasp, half-laughing through your tears, remembering the chaos from a few minutes ago.

He chuckles heartily, but there’s something so tender in his expression now. “So, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a simple yet stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“Yes!” you shout, your voice breaking with joy as you toss the blanket aside and fling yourself into his arms, knocking him backward onto the sofa. He laughs as you straddle his waist, hugging him tight, tears of joy streaming down your face.

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly, kissing him hard, your heart swelling with so much love it feels like it might burst.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, smiling up at you as you kiss him again, both of you tangled in this beautiful, overwhelming moment.

He slips the ring onto your finger, and you hold your hand up, marvelling at how perfectly it fits—how perfectly it all fits.

And as you both lie there, wrapped up in each other and the ridiculousness of the moment, Evan chuckles. “So, Smurf burrito, looks like you’re stuck with me for life.”

You laugh, smothering his face with smoochies of aggressive cuteness magnitude. “Lucky me. Now... about those burgers? I’m still hungry.”

Evan grins, pulling you closer. “First, how about I show you just how well I can speak your love language?”

“Burgers first, then more disaster sex,” you tease, giggling as he tries to tickle you.

“Deal,” he whispers, stealing another kiss, because honestly, in this moment, you’re the best thing on the menu.

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Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling, @babymazz

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Announcement

This might not be a forever goodbye, and who knows, a spinoff of this series might pop up someday, but this is going to be the final part, y’all. I’ll admit, I sometimes feel like I’m navigating through a tiny room with towering walls in this digital space; like my creative expression is being restricted and policed, and I cannot fully communicate or channel my “writing persona,” if you will, in here. Still, every bit of your love and support has made it worth it. I’ve poured so much into this world, and Evan, well… he’s been an incredible muse through it all. So, thanks a bunch, truly. xx

[umlewis]

Lewis Hamilton On Dressing Up, Showing Up, and Making No Apologies

When I learned that The Met was celebrating the Black dandy, I was a bit blown away, to be honest. Black dandyism, the men who came before us—curator Monica L. Miller’s work and how she explains this history in the exhibition “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”—it’s all so important to learn. What hit home hardest is how far back it goes, and that there are so many different ways to present as a man; you don’t have to be traditionally masculine. And Black men have always had to be more excellent than our white counterparts. I’ve seen that with my father and with me—we needed to be overachievers. That’s why this theme is just so important to me.

When I was growing up outside of London, there were no museums near me, there wasn’t much diversity, and there certainly wasn’t any exposure to fashion.

So I lived vicariously through magazines and music videos and films. The people I looked up to—it was Muhammad Ali, it was Michael Jordan, it was Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop wearing that cool leather jacket. And then a little bit later I started to learn about Cab Calloway, James Baldwin, Nelson Mandela, and André Leon Talley. I saw how their image was so important to them, and how they presented themselves through fashion.

At the same time, I was trying to understand how I wanted to present myself. As a teenager I didn’t have any money for clothes; my family and I spent it all on racing. So I would wash cars along my street for pocket money and go to the little thrift store in town and get the Tommy Hilfiger pieces that I saw in music videos. They gave me the confidence to show up and say, “This is who I am.”

Just before I got to Formula 1, I remember being looked up and down by a boss, and he definitely wasn’t impressed with what I was wearing. I was probably in FUBU and Timbs. I remember thinking, Shoot, I’ve really got to fit into this mold. And my dad expected me to fit into that mold too. Sometimes I would dress one way leaving the house, then drive down the road and change into a baggy, swagged-out look. I would go out and have the best night ever, then change back into what I left the house wearing before I came home.

When I first signed with F1 I was only allowed to wear suits and team kits, and it was horrible. I didn’t feel comfortable, and I didn’t feel like I was able to be myself.

Eventually, I had the courage to push beyond those boundaries and say, “Look, I want to turn up to the track in what I want to wear. I’m here now—you can’t get rid of me or change the way I dress.” The pushback was massive, but when the sport saw the impact of my little runway, other drivers started doing the same thing.

Of course, I always wanted to go to the Met Gala, and I got invited for the first time in 2015. It’s always been a privilege to attend, but in 2021, I no longer wanted to just be another person in the room. I was working with Law Roach, who is a dear friend, and I was like, “What if we created a table together where we invite a few up-and-coming Black designers, have them dress some guests, and we all show up together—so it’s about creating space and opportunity?” And also, I was going to buy the table myself. Of course, everyone looked great, but I felt like that night opened up a dialogue about amplifying underrepresented voices and talent.

Naturally, I hope this year’s Met Gala sparks conversation and reconfirms the connection between fashion and self-expression, and how deep it runs in Black culture. I hope it allows us to show that we have ownership of our identity and how we see ourselves and how we see one another, and how we use fashion to combat preconceived notions with humanity and dignity. If you think about where we are in the world—and particularly in the States, in terms of people pulling back on diversity—I think this Met Gala sends a really strong message that we must continue to celebrate and elevate Black history.

When I look at the images of Black men from the past—images like the ones in the exhibit—they were so stylish. My stylist, Eric McNeal, and I have been thinking about how I’m going to turn up at the Met Gala. We’re both very thoughtful and intentional when it comes to fashion, and I hope that everyone else attending is compelled to really research and think deeply about what they’re wearing. I also hope people take time to see the exhibit; the storytelling is amazing.

Timing is everything, and to have co-chaired a previous Met Gala wouldn’t have been as special. I’m really proud. (Also, I remember watching Pharrell as a kid and thinking, He’s so stylish and cool. It’s surreal for me to now be co-chairing with him.) The moment is going to be huge. A testament to our legacy. A message that it can’t be erased.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Gurney Eagle is a legendary American racing car designed by racing driver Dan Gurney in the 1960s. Gurney, a versatile driver and engineer, created the Eagle to compete in Formula 1, IndyCar, and Can-Am racing. The car is notable for its innovative design and engineering excellence, featuring a lightweight aluminum monocoque chassis and powerful V8 engines.

One of the most famous versions of the Gurney Eagle was the 1967 Eagle T1G, which competed in Formula 1 and scored a significant victory with Dan Gurney himself at the 1967 Belgian Grand Prix, making Gurney the first American driver to win a Formula 1 race in an American-built car.

The Gurney Eagle also left a lasting legacy in IndyCar racing, where it dominated Indy 500 events and continued to be a symbol of American racing innovation.

[beansprean]

colin robinson: truly the windows update of men <3

My Familiar’s Ghost part 75

Masterpost

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Close up on a small projector with light beaming out of its lens. 1b. Waist up of Colin standing in front of the fireplace in the fancy room, holding his laptop in one hand and gesturing behind him with the other, where a vinyl screen has been lowered. A color coded excel sheet with a list of vampires on the y axis and known familiars on the x axis is being projected on it. Each name is highlighted either red, green, or gray. Colin grins and says, 'For everyone's convenience, I've made a handy-dandy excel sheet cross-referencing known familiars with their current or former vampire masters. I would like to highlight the vampires G-man here killed in his recent rampage; no doubt they left some familiars out of work, haha!' 1c. Close up on the excel sheet as an error pops up that says 'this value doesn't match the data validation restrictions defined for this cell'. Offscreen, Colin continues: 'As you can see here, I-oh, darn. Hang on, I think I'm on the wrong cell. 1d. Repeat. Another error pops up over top of the original that says 'there's a problem with this formula'. Colin says, 'Whoopsie! Didn't mean to hit that, haha! Butterfingers over here!' 1e. Repeat. Another popup with the original error appears on top. On top of that, an error that says 'runtime error 7: out of memory'. On top of that, an error that says 'not enough resources to display correctly'. Colin mutters to himself offscreen: 'Let me see, uh...tab...function...nope. Control plus...s? Oh, I think I took a screen shot. Gotta remember that one, heh!' 1f. Repeat. Another error appears on top saying 'microsoft excel has stopped working. hang on while windows reports the problem to microsoft' with a loading bar. Colin says, 'Oh, dag nabbit. Excel, who approved this vacation time?'

2a. Close up on Laszlo slumped in the loveseat, head propped up on a fist with half-closed eyes blearily focusing on the screen. Behind him, Nadja is holding Dolly's body over her head like earmuffs to block the sound of Colin's voice, her mouth open in a frustrated groan. Dolly has her palms over her own ears. Offscreen, Colin chuckles in delight and says 'Don't worry, I can get her going again. Let me try to reset...' 2b. Close up of Guillermo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes closed as he nods off. 2c. Close up on Nandor leaning back in his chair, eyes closed and mouth slack as he resists sleep. Colin continues offscreen: 'Ope. That was restart. Oh, uh... 'configuring windows updates'... Well, hopefully that won't take too long. 2d. Reverse shot, wide, of Colin standing by the projector screen as Nandor suddenly sits straight up in the foreground, eyes squeezed shut and face turned away from Colin toward the viewer. He whips his left arm out toward the projector screen and shouts 'Enough!' The screen bursts into flame, startling Colin who had been tapping fruitlessly at his laptop. /end ID

[stickybowl]

audi tp carlos/driver oscar wip

Oscar wins the championship. It's fireworks shooting into the sky. It’s loud cheers in his ear both from his radio and from the grandstands. It’s the champagne sneaking into his fireproof. It's a heavy weight being lifted from his shoulders. The air knocked out from his chest. Oscar feels everything all at once.

'This is only the beginning, Oscar.', Mark whispers in his ear and he believes it.

Except he's not sure anymore. Oscar Piastri won the championship two years ago but has not even been close to a win ever since. Lando left McLaren a year after Oscar won his championship.

At the time, everyone thought it's because Lando knew he would never win a championship with Oscar as his teammate. But now as he looks at Lando at the podium wearing dark blue, he thinks maybe that was not entirely the reason why he left. Possibly, not a reason at all.

But who would have predicted that McLaren would go backwards after such excellent years?

"Oscar."

He turns and sees brown eyes still as intense as they were when they first met his. He breathes deeply and accepts the handshake offered to him.

"Great race." Carlos says and clasps his other hand on his shoulder. Oscar winces a bit, feeling his fingers dig into his skin. He's not sure if he's just imagining it.

Carlos Sainz retired from driving a long time ago. Didn't even wait for Oscar to win the championship so he can rub it in his face. Shame. He still sees Carlos in the paddock from time to time. Still glued to Lando's side after all these years. Maybe even more so now that he's not competing with Lando anymore.

Oscar scoffs with humour, "Yeah. Great race." If you can call a p5 which he barely held onto anything, it surely wouldn’t be the word great.

Carlos raises one eyebrow at him. "Not happy, huh?"

The hand on his shoulder has found its way back on Carlos’s jeans pocket and he suddenly wishes it was still on his shoulder, pressure firm. Just to ground him.

He hasn't been happy with the team, with the car for some time now. But this is his team. The one he made his debut with. The one he won races with. The one he won a championship with. But it's not enough. Oscar wants more. He always wants more. But he can't say that. He hasn't said it to anyone else but Mark who was probably the first one to frown at McLaren's faults even before Oscar noticed it.

He sure as hell would not share it to Carlos. He’s not a threat. He's nothing in the paddock anymore. He just comes here to entertain himself. Still, Oscar won't put it past Carlos to run his big mouth around the paddock.

"I'm as happy as I can be." He shrugs.

Carlos laughs, disbelief dancing in his eyes. Oscar wants to claw at Carlos' skin and scream. What do you know? You don't know me. You don't even know the team you used to work for anymore.

Oscar nods his goodbye and leaves. No point in souring his mood even more than it is by standing next to Carlos who still thinks he knows better than Oscar.

You've never won a championship, Carlos. What could you possibly know that I don't?

"Oscar."

Oscar stops at his tracks but doesn't turn. He rolls his eyes thinking god, does he ever stop talking?

"You know you could have more than this. You deserve more."

Oscar shakes his head and continues walking. He's not gonna stand there and let Carlos tell him what he already knows. Oscar has been in formula one for years. He's already made his mark in the sport. He's adored. He's looked up to. But speaking with Carlos still makes him feel like the rookie he was once. Enthusiastic and eager. Maybe a little foolish. He's not listening to carlos.

"Jesus christ."

Oscar sits in his living room, his phone on hand lit up with an image Mark just sent him.

'You want me to talk to him?' Mark sends.

Carlos Sainz new Audi F1 Team principal.

Oscar runs a hand down his face. As it turns out, Carlos still does know some things Oscar doesn't.

'Yes, please.' he replies.

Damn it.