#it’s the car thing I’m spinning about lol

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

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[strangerstilinski]

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1.7k

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: older!mechanic!eddie, fem!reader, use of 'girl' in reference to reader, oral (m receiving), semi-public sex, bumbling/awkward/lovestruck eddie (as is typical for my writing lol), i think that's it but lmk if i missed anything

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

“-and anyway, all I’m saying is, you’re gonna get a lot more years outta your car if you bring it in to get an oil change every six months or so-”

It’s really not that you don’t care about what he has to say. Your lack of focus on his advice has entirely more to do with the way his thick fingers are curled around the pint of beer in front of him. The metal wrapped around the base several of his fingers clink softly every time the older man nervously drums them against the glass. All you can think about is those fingers in your hair, gripping the fat of your ass or your hips, stretching out your cunt in preparation for his cock.

Your stomach flips a little at the sight of his fingernails. Scrubbed clean of any of the oil or grime that had been wedged into his nail-beds when you’d first met a week ago at the auto body shop, the little patch sewn into his coveralls had blessed you with the name that you finally utter now.

“Eddie?” You interrupt sweetly, glossed lips pursing when his eyes snap to yours.

“Shit. Am I talking too much? I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” He rambles in distress, bringing ringed fingers up to scratch at the coarse stubble lining his jaw. “It’s just- When you asked me to get a drink, at first I kinda thought you were just angling for a discount on repairs, y’know? I mean, pretty thing like you? Actually wanting go out with this old mess? It seemed ridiculous, but- Well, now we’re here and you’ve already paid off the invoice for your car and I’m a little-”

“Eddie.”

His words cut off with a quiet clack as his teeth snap together, eyes searching your own in the dimly lit bar.

“I want you,” Your hand meets where his is wrapped around the sweaty pint glass, fingers hooking underneath his own as you guide your laced hands to rest on the sticky tabletop, “I.. really want you.” You repeat with a bit more emphasis, the words a little softer with vulnerability this time, a little more desperate.

“What, like-? Like right now?” Eddie is already looking around the bar with wide eyes before his gaze flicks back to you, question swimming in their brown depths, “Here?” He murmurs in quiet disbelief.

You give him a coy smile, long lashes blinking at him longingly, “Here.”

Eddie rises to his feet a bit clumsily, like perhaps his body was trying to respond to your words before his brain, “Shit. Fuck. Okay, sweetheart. If you’re sure, I mean. Uh, we.. We could.. Um-”

You're far too worked up to find his racing thoughts as endearing as you think that you normally would, “Eddie-”

He’s dragging you up from the other side of the booth in a flash, large hands falling to your waist as he begins to guide you through the desolate Tuesday night bar crowd with his chest pressed warmly to your spine.

“Just come with me, baby,” Eddie trips over a his own feet in his heavy boots and nearly takes you down with him, narrowly managing to keep his feet underneath himself as he tries to keep you from stumbling, “Shit, sorry-” He grumbles into your ear from behind, the huskiness of his voice and the warmth of his breath prompting a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Once the two of you have stumbled your way down the dark hallway at the back, you spin around to let your arms snake around his waist from behind. Eddie is fumbling with the sticky knob of the bathroom door, the hairs at the base of his tummy soft under your fingers and you can't help but dip your hand beneath his waistband where the hair spreads further.

“Shit-” Eddie fumbles with the door when your fingertips just graze the base of his cock, the skin silky smooth under your palm as you push a little further so you can wrap your small hand around him, “Oh, you're a f-fucking.. menace, aren’t you? N-not so sweet after all.” He tells you, not an ounce of bite to his words, more of a groan of approval than anything.

Your only response is to press your lips to the side of his throat beneath his wild mane of curls, snapping a small nip of your teeth against the curve of his shoulder as you work your hand torturously slow on his cock.

Distracted by your touch, Eddie swings the door open with with a bit too much enthusiasm. He dives forward to catch it before it can collide with the dirty porcelain sink on the inside wall and only narrowly gets a hold of it in time.

As soon as the door is secured behind you again, you're dropping to your knees in front of him. Your mouth finds the soft pudge of his tummy, and metal and leather clink and slap beneath your quick hands as you work his belt and get his jeans open enough to tug out his cock. It springs up as it's released, half hard already and bobbing in front of you like it's taunting you for just how badly you want him. His cock is gorgeous — average length but thick and beautifully curved just a bit to the right.

You hungrily eye the tip where he's flushed dark pink, shiny and dribbling just the tiniest bit already, shining in the hazy light coming from the exposed lightbulb in the ceiling.

Eddie lets out a groan as you take him in your hand again and lick at his tip, savoring the small beads of precome that meet your tongue. You hum at the salty tang of them, dragging your mouth down the length of him, tracing the soft vein along the underside of his cock with your lips and tongue.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie moans, his hand finding it's way into your loose hair nearly immediately. He doesn’t pull, he doesn’t push, his hands are entirely too gentle. His fingertips pet soft at your head like he’s praising you already and you’ve hardly even started, “You.. Baby girl, you don't have to-”

You lean back from where you'd been swirling your tongue around the head, giving his length a couple of short tugs as you look up at him through your lashes with a huff, “Mm, and maybe I want to. You ever think of that?”

He balks, hips jerking minutely and incidentally thrusting his cock toward your pouting lips, “I.. Um-”

“Maybe I’m a young, confident woman who knows what she wants. And maybe I want to suck you off. Did that not cross your mind? Hm? That maybe I might like having your dick in my mouth?” You continue, voice dropping a few octaves.

A soft gasp turned groan falls from the older man’s lips when you lean back in to suck lightly at the tip and the sound has your thighs clenching together against the wave of arousal that curls in your tummy.

“Do you?” Eddie can’t help but ask, the question coming out a quiet groan, “Like it?”

“Mhm,” You hum around him, pushing further down his length to take in more of him, letting him feel the way your throat constricts around the head of his cock when you gag before pulling all the way off again, “Love it.”

“I just thought- Pretty thing like your shouldn’t have t- God. I, uh. You.. Shit. You’re certainly ohmygod- g-good at it.” He struggles to get his words out when you take him back between your lips, but then he’s huffing a quiet sigh of distress when you remove the warm heat of your mouth from his length once again.

“Good..?” You repeat in question.

“Wh- Huh?”

Eddie is blinking down at you dumbly, his hand flexing in your hair as he tries to clear his head. It's infuriatingly sexy.

“I’m on my knees for you in a dirty bar restroom and I’m ‘good’ at sucking your dick? It's.. ‘Good?’” You say the word with distaste, one eyebrow ticking up on your forehead in challenge as you place his tip back against your lower lip teasingly. You let it rest there, one hand coming up to his waist to keep his hips from jutting forward as you part your lips and let a warm breath wash over the wet head of this cock.

“Shit, sweetheart. Did I say good? I meant great! I, uh, phenomenal! M-mindblowing fuck-” He moans loud around the word when you reward him by taking him into your mouth again.

You let him rest heavy on your tongue, sucking and bobbing your head in slow drags while he sighs out a desperate little sound at the feeling.

“Fuck. You- You’re perfect, baby girl. You have to know that. An angel. Gotta know how much you’re- Ohh-”

The surprised groan that cuts him off has you soaked beneath your panties, moaning around his length in response.

“-How much you’re rockin’ my world right now.” He finishes weakly.

You pull off to give him an amused smile, jerking him in earnest with one hand and wiping spit from your lips with the other, “Oh, I rock your world, huh, old man?” You tease.

“God damn it,” Eddie breathes the words, dragging you up by your shoulders until you’re standing in front of him again, “You really are a little brat, aren’t you?”

But his mouth is on yours before you can respond, beer coated tongue breaking through the seam of your lips, a wide palm and fingers covered in cool rings encasing the back of your neck as he leads you just a few steps backward, until your spine is hitting the door.

Your keening moan is lost in the kiss, and as life-changing as his cock and fingers and mouth prove to be that evening, it’s his whispered words of praise and the sweet kisses he presses to your hair as he catches his breath at the end of it all that truly ruin you for anyone else.

As it turns out, the older mechanic who fixed up your car? Eddie? He’s kinda it for you.

[maxlarens]

I got a lot to say so it might be long,

starting with, thank you for the Charles smau and the Lando fic <3

it took me time to choose an emoji lol but I've been doing an internship and time goes by way too quickly, but I decided to go for the strawberry one 🍓

and since you said you wanted to write for driver! reader, and that she was very intense about driving, maybe you can write something about her racing while she's sick/not feeling well but she still wins the race

woo hi again!!! literally no big deal! i hope ur internship is going well, it’s awesome that you’re doing one!! but yeah literally real life is always the priority as much as i’d also like to spend all my time on here lol. but anyway yay the strawberry is super cute 🍓🥺

and YES lol driver!reader is consuming my thoughts right now. i have other things i should be writing instead of this but i smashed this out in a few days😭 i decided not to make it a win because i have a thing brewing for driver!readers first win and i didn’t want to use up all my ideas for that. anyway!!! as usual thank u for the ask and pls enjoyyy 🤗

OP: extraordinary machine

pairing(s): oscar piastri x mercedes driver!reader

summary: you push yourself to your limits. (also sorry i simply don't know enough technical terms about racing for this to be fully accurate but i hope it works)

word count: 3.4k+

Here is a fact— you’ve got a fever of 39.4 degrees.

Here is another, indisputable fact— you’re racing in Imola today.

The fever had come on overnight after a persistent tickle in your throat all weekend. A mildly sore throat had turned rapidly to a snotty nose, full body chills and sweat pouring off you like you’d just run a marathon. You’re wearing a puffer jacket over your racing suit and it’s twenty-nine degrees out. You feel freezing, you feel delirious, and you’re eating Sour Patch Kids by the handful to keep the sugar rush going. Your race engineer, Rachel, keeps telling you that it’s okay if you can’t race. George can step in, I promise. You keep telling her I’m fine. I’m fine. I can race. But the expression on her face says she doesn’t believe you.

You’re telling practically everyone who’ll listen that you’re getting in that fucking car today. Rachel, George, your mum who keeps calling. Lewis keeps looking at you like you’re about to keel over and die and you want to scream at him you did this! Brazil 2015. You had a fever. You got on the podium. If I can’t do this and you can, what does that mean? But you don’t because that’s your 39.4-degree fever talking and this isn’t about being better than Lewis. It’s about knowing without a doubt that you can still get in that car and race your ass off.

Your phone keeps buzzing with texts from Susie that reassure you that you’d be disappointing no one at all if you had to let George take over this race. You’re not letting down women everywhere and you’re not letting down the team. I know Susie, you keep saying, but I’m still racing.

You know you’ve got to convince Toto when Rachel starts a hurried conversation with George and he starts grabbing his fireproofs like it’s a sure thing he’ll be driving in your place. Bundled up in your coat like it’s the middle of winter, you stomp over to Toto’s office and barge in.

“I’m racing,” you tell him without any preamble.

His head snaps to look at you, expression only mildly surprised— not that you would even notice if you didn’t spend so much time around him. He gives you a once over, eyes lingering pointedly on your jacket and then he raises his eyebrows, “It is twenty-nine degrees outside.”

You suck your teeth in frustration, “I know. The car will be hot. I can race.”

He frowns.

You plead, “Toto. Do not take me out of that car. I can do this.”

He shakes his head, “I can see you sweating from here. You’re not well.”

You shake your head frantically, ignoring how your vision starts spinning, “Let me race. If I fuck up you can put George in the car for Monaco. If I fuck up you can even replace me. I don’t care. Just let me drive today.”

Toto’s face pinches in the way it does when he’s considering something, you can see cogs turning in his head as he evaluates what you’ve said and decides if he should listen to it.

He sighs, “I am not putting that kind of ultimatum on you,” your heart stutters and stops in your chest, and you hold your breath, “Okay. Against my better judgement, I will let you race today.”

You let out an audible breath, it edges out into a sob that makes your aching body curl into itself. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes for a moment to suppress the urge to give in to your fever. It would be easier to give up, it would be easier to let George take your seat for the race so you could crawl into bed and cry the fever out. But none of this has ever been easy for you. You’ve fought tooth and nail to get here, you won’t forfeit a race and let people say you took the easy way out.

You look up. Toto looks concerned.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t.”

You practically stumble onto the asphalt before the national anthem, passing your coat off to Rachel while your trainer wipes your forehead with a towel as if you’ve just finished a full-body workout. Your shoulders feel tense, you can’t stand up straight without shuddering so you’re hunched over awkwardly hoping it doesn’t come off looking too strange.

People are still milling about, setting things up while the drivers assemble. You don’t really notice on account of the fever state you’re in, but you end up standing between the McLaren boys. You must brush against Oscar because he looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed, mouth set in a line and his eyes wide like a puppy dog. You get lost in them a little— because of the fever. Definitely.

“Dude,” Oscar says to you, “You’re really hot.”

On your other side, Lando breaks into a fit of laughter. You frown, your brain trying the puzzle through the sentence. You feel foggy, your eyes feel heavy. You need more Sour Patch Kids, or a shot of espresso, or five Red Bulls. Max could swing it for you.

Oscar leans past you and swats at Lando’s shoulder, “She’s burning up, stupid.”

Lando’s laughter pauses, and he says seriously, “Oh shit.”

Suddenly, you’re being twisted around and you’re wincing at the contact on your shoulder that makes it ache even more. Lando puts a hand on your forehead and then immediately rips it away.

“Eugh. You’re sweaty.”

The back of Oscar’s hand replaces it. You twist away, brushing it off.

“You’ve got a fever,” he tells you, his voice thick with concern for you, “Have you told anyone? Does Toto know? Lewis?”

Instead of answering you press a hand over your eyes and crack your neck, trying to work through some of the stiffness in your back. You roll your shoulders and stand up as straight as possible, pushing through that aching, sickly feeling that runs through your whole body. When you finally drag your hand from your face— a thin sheen of sweat coming with it— Oscar is staring at you with a deep-set frown on his mouth. At his shoulder, Lando looks at you with a markedly less severe, but still concerned, expression.

“I’m fine, Oscar,” you insist.

You’re not. He knows you’re not. It doesn’t matter, you don’t want to seem weak. Not barely thirty minutes before the race. You can’t have either of them thinking you’d be easy for an overtake or that you’ll back out of a fight first. Off the track, fine— you’ve been vulnerable and honest with both of them at times. On the track is a different story. This is Formula One. You’re not here to make friends. They are not here to make friends.

“Mm,” Oscar hums, “Pretty sure you’re not.”

“You’re sweating bullets,” Lando adds, “Can see it from here.”

Something white-hot and pissed off flares up your spine. Oscar is not this kind of person, even on track; but the suspicion that he’s just trying to eliminate you as competition rises anyway. You think it because if the situation were flipped, you’d be weighing the pros and cons of having a sick driver on the track. Their weaknesses, what it means if they’re distracted. It doesn’t make you a good person, but you’re already pretty sure you aren’t one.

“I am fine,” you bite.

Oscar’s expression drops. Into something not quite offended… accepting, maybe? Resigned? It closes off to you, is what you mean. That’s fine, you’re trying to close yourself off to him. You’re re-drawing a line that you’ve been crossing without a thought for at least two years now. You’re not here to make googly eyes at Oscar and let him put his hand on your fever-ridden forehead and have him reprimand out-of-line, so-called professionals for you. You’re here to get in that car every Sunday and put your life on the line for a shiny trophy and fucking glory. Even if you’ve got a fever. Even if you’ve got a weird crush on Oscar Piastri.

“I’m racing,” you add in a different tone, feeling as if you’ve been a bit harsh on a well-meaning Oscar, even if you mean what you’re thinking.

Oscar nods, and says, “Okay,” in a way that really means, ‘If you say so, then it is’.

In the car, on the tarmac, sitting in your starting grid position, you’re shitting bricks.

Your cheeks are squeezed tight into your helmet, you can feel sweat, slick and soaking through your balaclava. Your arms hurt, your legs hurt, your ass hurts where it’s pressed into the seat. You’re not crying, but your mouth— hidden away by your helmet— is open like you’re about to. Set into a grimace that you breathe raggedly out of. Toto says something over the radio before the lights go out, you don’t hear it. You’re too busy regretting how earnestly you’d begged him to let you race. It would have been better if George had taken over. It might have been better if you’d passed out during the national anthem so you really had no choice but to sit it out. No one could say you weren’t committed to this sport if that had happened. They’d have plenty to say about women and their weak constitutions though.

You’re on autopilot when the lights go out. One second you’re freaking out like it’s your first time in a car, the next second everything is fading into background noise and you’re fighting a Ferrari and a McLaren for your original grid position. Twenty of you tear down the straight to turn two and you find yourself slotting easily into what you think is P4. Ferrari— not the same one— in front of you. Your mirrors reveal the McLaren behind you. It’s Oscar, you’re sure. You can tell by the way he sticks to your ass. Every nudge of the car you make he makes with you.

You press the radio button, “That Piastri behind?”

Crackle, “Yeah.”

“Knew it. He’s up my butt, Rach.”

“Okay. Go faster then. Not sure what to tell you.”

You make a face. You weren’t looking for sarky advice, you were trying to commiserate. You press the button and make a vaguely mocking neh-neh noise that gets a laugh and then radio silence because you’re supposed to be fucking concentrating. Which, okay, fair.

You press the throttle, done with trying to manage your tyres for the moment and taking Rachel’s comment as permission. You tear away from Oscar, stopping his fight to overtake you through the chicane in its tracks. You start slowly gaining on the Ferrari in front of you, its red rear wing growing closer and closer.

“Sainz in front?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yup,” Rachel confirms before rattling off some lap times when you ask for them.

By lap thirty-something, you’re on Sainz’s ass like Oscar was on yours. You’re fighting him through every chicane, threatening him on the straights and generally behaving in a way that you know for a fact is putting him on edge. But Carlos isn’t giving up P3 without a fight.

A safety car goes out around lap forty, and you pit. Everyone ahead of you does as well. Oscar doesn’t, Oscar is lucky to have gone in earlier. Rachel tells you he’d made up four places after being forced to box for some tyre issue. You feel a strange mix of pride and jealousy swirl in your chest as you all file into a discordant line behind the safety car.

Verstappen leads the pack, as per usual. Then Oscar, Sainz and you. Leclerc is behind you, then Lando. You’re in P4, right where you started and right where you’ve been fucking sitting the entire race so far. twenty-five laps to at least make it onto the podium. Then you’ll be happy. Or not quite happy, you’d need pole for that. Content. You’d be content.

Max starts weaving. The safety car goes off and Max keeps you all ready and waiting until the exact millisecond that he decides the race can properly begin again. You hate when he does this— you know that’s exactly why. Eventually, finally, he gets going.

You have to run defence like crazy for a few laps to keep Leclerc behind you until everything is warmed up. The gap widens as you drive. At some point, you stop worrying about the Monégasque so much and focus your attention on car fifty-five like your life depends on it. The laps fly by as time ticks on. Twenty-five to go, twenty, fifteen, ten. You’re back on Sainz’s rear wheel, a gap of 0.2 to 0.3 that’s been consistent throughout this last stretch of the race. You’re watching him like a hawk, waiting for the smallest slip-up to take advantage of. Somewhere you can push, somewhere he’s weak. It’s hard— he’s covering all his bases. Not giving you an inch so you can’t take a mile.

You’re closing in on sixty-four laps— with only three to go— when he gives you that fucking inch. It’s in the first chicane. His wheel locks up, and he jerks the car slightly the wrong way, something like that. You get in his space and you push and he backs out first. You press down on the throttle and rocket past him, shouting FUCK! FUCK YES! to yourself.

P3. P3. God, you hope it’s P3.

You press the talk button, “Rach?”

“Yes, P3,” she barks, “Fucking, focus. Three laps to go.”

Those last three laps of Imola are some of the hardest of your life. Defending against Carlos is a task, of course, but it’s not even that. The sickness starts to creep back into your awareness as the adrenaline that had hit its peak during the overtake starts to subside. Two laps to go and you’re remembering the fever again. The sweat soaking your hair and streaking down the back of your neck. Your whole body is on fire and it aches everywhere. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the inside of your skull. You want so badly to close your eyes and drift away to sleep, but the car is flying through the air demanding your attention with the way it thuds against the track. You’ve got one lap to go and Carlos is on you like white on rice. You can’t afford to make a mistake until you’re firmly over that finish line.

So you don’t. You grit your teeth and you refuse.

Carlos is downright reckless in the last chicane, he tries to bait you by moving to one side and pushing but you’re not going to fall for something like that even if you’re near delirious from the 39.4-degree fever. Though surely it’s higher now, the car temp can’t be helping. You hardly realise you’ve crossed the finish line because you’re thinking so hard about how lightheaded you feel. On instinct, you slow down to a safe speed as Oscar’s McLaren enters your vision, but you think your toes have pins and needles and there’s some feeling tingling up into your shoulders. You blink hard and take a long sip of water so you can make it to the pits before your head starts to spin.

Crackle, “Where are you going? That was P3.”

“Huh?” you realise you’re following the other drivers instead of heading into the pits where you’re supposed to go, “Shit. Sorry.”

You edge back as carefully as you can, avoiding other cars that pass by, lucky you’ve not overshot too far so you can turn into the pits and park your car in front of the P3 sign without going around the entire track. That would be embarrassing. Or that would be more embarrassing than how disgusting you’re going to look when you take your helmet and balaclava off.

Toto, Rachel and a few of your engineers are there to meet you at the barricade when you clamber out of the car, unsteady on your feet. Rachel’s eyebrows are furrowed as she tries her best to smile at you, trying to put on a brave face even though you can tell she’s concerned you’re going to keel over. You brace yourself with a hand against the gate and tear your helmet off, then your balaclava. You’ve never been so fast to put a cap on your head, trying to cover the sweaty mess that is your hair right now.

“That was phenomenal work,” Rachel says, reaching to put a hand on your burning hot bicep, “You look fucking terrible, though.”

You suck in a ragged breath and you nod in agreement, trying to keep the black tinging your vision from taking over completely. 

“Get her something to drink,” you hear Toto bark, though it comes to your ears, muffled and staticky.

You’re fine. You’re fine. Until you’re not and your sweaty hand is slipping against the guardrail and your vision is fading into darkness and you’re falling face first into a metal railing. And, and, someone’s got their arm around your middle and you’re not on the ground with your face in the asphalt. You blink, hot tears— from what you assume is exhaustion— burning your eyelids. The arm around your middle is covered in something orange and black… Oscar. It’s Oscar who’s got you propped up, held firm into his body so your legs don’t collapse underneath you. The two of you sway and stumble for a second as you gain your footing back, your vision returning to normal, the buzzing in your ears going away.

“You’re good,” he breathes, “I’ve got you.”

You ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you attribute it to your current state.

You remember the cameras that are on all of you right now. You try not to look panicked as you step away from him. You try to do it calmly and not frantically like you so want to. Toto has some electrolyte drink held out right in your face and you take it, chugging half of it straight away while you swivel around to face Oscar. You nod, feeling slightly better, but gripping the guardrail tight so as not to repeat earlier.

“Thanks,” you try a smile, but it’s just turning into a grimace because you feel like shit.

Oscar shakes his head, “Don’t mention it.”

“Great driving out there.”

His eyebrow goes up, touching the curl of his hair that peeks out from his cap.

“You’re kidding?” he says, tone laced with amusement.

You frown, which is much easier, “No. You drove great.”

He makes a face like ‘yes, obviously’, but somehow does it in a humble and endearing way that you find you like a little too much. It leaves you confused as to his point.

“No,” he scoffs, “Okay, yes. What I mean is that you just got P3 with a raging fever.”

You purse your lips, countering, “You don’t know I have a fever.”

His tongue darts out to wet his top lip, hiding the small smile that threatens on his face.

He shrugs, “Bit obvious, unfortunately.”

You roll your eyes. You think what he means is it’s a bit obvious because you look like absolute death. There’s probably sweat rolling off you in buckets, your cap is jammed on your head and your hair is probably sticking out at crazy angles. There were dark circles under your eyes before you left for the track this morning, they’re probably ten times worse now. He might also mean it’s obvious from the way your skin is burning hot, like touching a radiator in the middle of winter. Or, perhaps, the way you’d passed out into his arms a few minutes earlier.

You suck your teeth, “Well. I told you I was racing today.”

Oscar nods, biting the inside of his lip, “Yeah. You did.”

There’s more that neither of you are saying. A conversation that you’re trying desperately to have with prolonged eye contact, small little smiles and breaths out through the nose. You think it might be ‘I’m proud of you’ or ‘You’re very impressive and I’m going a little bit crazy about it’. That’s how you feel at least, somewhere in between the fever chills and the urge you’re suppressing to curl into a ball on the tarmac. This is okay, you think. You don’t have to be Oscar’s sworn enemy just because you’re both chasing the win. You can let him worry about you, but make sure he understands he can’t stop you from taking the things that you want. You can say things that mean other things and Oscar can smile at you like it’s something private for just the two of you.

You can be happy with that. Or not quite happy. Content.

🏎️ song inspo (fiona apple my Beloved) -> https://open.spotify.com/track/5h9Iek7Hp9wayRt7fBp7Ab?si=9PnuH5CDSC-qTurLPGiTwg

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[catch1ngmoths]

Hi my pookie 😏 Can I request a Joost Klein x fem!reader where it's unrequited love, reader likes Joost, and she's about to give up because he doesn't feel the same but something happens to the reader which causes Joost to panic and confess he's always loved her?

⛆ ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU ⛆

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ “So come inside and be with me, alone with me, alone with me, alone. If you would let me give you pinky promise kisses, then I wouldn't have to scream your name atop of every roof in the city of my heart.” -Mitski𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

Summary: your in love with Joost and do everything to try and show your love for him but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate your feelings and even gets involved with another girl. Talking about her 24/7 but suddenly you finally boil over and snap at him. Not knowing your standing in the middle of the street….

Note: THIS ONE IS DRAMATIC AS HELL LOL, anyways finally have the energy to finish a fic! I might post another one soon also, hope yall didn’t miss me too much ;)

Warnings: just straight up y/n and Joost hurting and y/n kinda sorta gets hit by a car (ಡ᎔ಡ)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Pain. That’s all this brought you was pain. Being joost’s best friend and loyal companion was the best and worst thing you’ve experienced. Joost was your favorite person, and you were his. But what he didn’t know was how you felt, how you stared at him longingly every chance you could.

How desperately you wanted to snuggle close to him and explain all your feelings to him. But you couldn’t, not when all he talked about was her. Louise. A girl he met and was how infatuated with, or that’s how it seemed in your eyes. He talked about their relationship and how it kept building day by day.

Today was just another day you felt the familiar tug at your heart, “-and then she said she loved my glasses, it was so kind!” Joost says, laying back as his head rests in your lap, eyes looking straight up at the starry sky you both sat under. Your body tenses and you let out a soft sigh but you quickly recover and look down at him with a smile.

“I’m glad she likes your dorky glasses, might be the only one” you say with a teasing snicker, making Joost look up at you with a faux offended stare and a pout. It wasn’t true, you loved his glasses, you always have. But I guess he never payed any mind to your compliments towards the thick black glasses that sat on his face, but he did for her. Funny isn’t it? Your snapped out of your thoughts as Joost speaks, “ha ha, very funny.” He says as he reaches up to pinch your cheek with a small chuckle.

You smile apawn the contact and lean into his touch that’s quickly stolen away as he lowers his hand back down. The warmth leaving your cheek and making your heart clinch and you look up at the stars as well. You could never tell him, you couldn’t ruin this for him.

Little did you know joost wanted nothing more then to sit up and kiss you in that moment, your teasing words and soft smile made his head spin. He was so in love with you but he couldn’t tell you. Not when you were so out of his league, I mean you’re you and he’s…well he’s him. You were way too good for him. He could never tell you, he couldn’t take you when there’s someone out there that was way better looking than him.

So Joost was willing to try and move on, when he saw Louise and noticed how into him she was he took his chance. He wanted you to do the same- well not wanted. He needed you to find someone like he was, someone that was better than him so he could at least try and get over you. He hoped him always bringing Louise up would push you in that direction, he didn’t know it would hurt you the worst you’ve been hurt in your life.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

During present time, were at your breaking point, you couldn’t listen to it anymore. So you snapped, you snapped at Joost when he brought up Louise once more. “We held hands today, she said my hands were very soft and warm?! Can you believe that- my hands are neither sof-“ he’s cut off by an aggravated sigh and he looks up at you immediately.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as he tries to scan your face to get information on what exactly you’re feeling. “Are you done?” You spat aggressively, you didn’t mean to be rude. Truly you didn’t! But you were just so filled with jealousy and envy that you snapped. Joost looks taken aback and stayed silent for a bit before speaking again, “am I done…?” He says in a tone that very stern.

“Yeah, are you done talking about her all the time?!” You replied as you rubbed your temples and stood up from where you were sitting right next to him on his couch. “Uhh…what the hell is your deal?” He says with furrowed eyebrows, starting to become frustrated at your sudden hostility.

“My deal is that you’re always talking about her! I get it, you’re in love with her but I don’t wanna hear it anymore! Okay??” You say as Joost also stands from his spot on the couch, “in love-?! Wha-“ he’s cut off by you again, “always talking about how great she is while I just sit here feeling like a third wheel!” You continue as he scoffs, “okay well I thought you were happy for me!?” He says, both of your voices raising.

“I am!! I’m just tried of hearing about how awesome and smart and beautiful she is!” You reply as you roll your eyes. “Jesus why are you acting like this?!” He says, making you scoff and cross your arms. “Uh what the fuck is that supposed to mean!!? I’m just sick of hearing about it!” You narrow your eyes at him.

You rub them bridge of your nose before you start walking towards his front door, leaving. “I’m just gonna go.” You say coldly making Joost shake his head. “What?! You can’t just leave like this?!” He says as he follows after you hastily. You don’t turn and continue walking, were you being a little dramatic? Sure. But the feelings you’ve bottled up for so long were finally erupting and you weren’t thinking about that.

“Watch me.” You snarl as you walk down the street, you didn’t know where you were going…hell you were staying with Joost for the time being, you just needed space. Joost didn’t understand that, knowing you had nowhere else to go. He didn’t want anything to happen to you so he follow behind you but you picked up the pace.

“Why the hell are you so adamant about this?! What the fuck is your problem” he says as you groan in annoyance and swiftly turn to him, standing in the middle of the empty road. He finally sees your eyes that were filled with tears, some rolling down your cheeks. It broke his heart as his eyes widen.

You laugh bitterly and sarcastically, “what is my problem?!” You raise your voice, “my problem is that you love this girl and you don’t even realize how I feel about you!! How much I love you, but you’re too busy with her to even realize! I’ve tried everything, everything joost! But your too busy with her to ever notice me so I’m don’t trying to get you to notice me!! ”

You weren’t thinking, you were just rambling as you spoke, Joost froze, not that you realized. Your vision was blurry from the tears in your eyes. Something else you failed to realize was the car coming right in your direction. (I know this is so dramatic (ᵕ—ᴗ—) I couldn’t think of anything else to happen to reader! Plus who doesn’t like a little dramatics!)

You both noticed too late, once you noticed the approaching lights you swiftly turned and saw the car speeding towards you. You have no time to react before your eyes widen, you hear your name being screamed and then everything goes black.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Your eyes crack open as you feel blinded by a bright light, you groan and try to sit up but you feel a pair of soft hands wrapping around you. Your breath hitches and eyes widen as you hear soft sobs coming from the person holding you.

Your senses finally come back to you as you see the bright blonde hair that you could recognize anywhere. Your wrap your arms around him as well, “j-Joost..? What happened?” You say weakly, your whole body hurt. But Joost finally stops hugging you, holding your cheeks in his hands as tears roll down his face.

“Your dumbass got hit by a car” he says with a shakey laugh, “god I’m so glad your okay” he finishes as he presses soft kisses to your head, your memory coming back as you groan and burry your face in his chest. A soft chuckle coming from the man in response. He sighs and lifts your chin up, looking deep in your eyes

“I’m not…I’m not talking to Louise anymore.” He says and your heart drops, you did this, you made him stop seeing the “love of his life” Joost immediately notices your widened eyes and shakes his head, “because…I figured out who I’m truly meant to be with.” He says with a soft smile as he presses his forehead to yours

“W-who..?” You say as your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest. “How about I show you huh?” He says with a smirk before lowering his head and connecting his lips to yours, you both part with shallow breaths, ““I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t know you thought of me like that, Louise was just a distraction because-“ he pauses and looks away

“Because I was trying to distract myself from how much I love you. God I’m so sorry this is all my fa-“ he’s cut off by your soft voice, “shut up and kiss me again” he smiles before pressing his lips gently back to yours and suddenly, even being in the hospital, everything doesn’t seem so bad..

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This fic actually sucks ass, I’m sorry for the bad fic lol I promise I’ll try to lock in 🙏🏻🥲

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[judes-hoe]

Help together ~LN4

Parrings~Lando Norris x teammate!reader

Summary~ being the new rookie at McLaren and only being 19 you caused your anxiety to go through the roof and Lando helps you cause he went through the same thing.

Warnings~ mention of mental health, anxiety, panic attacks!!!!!!!!!

A/N~ from this TikTok:( also Lando and you have a 4-5 year age gap your 19 turning 20, also pretend Oscar like doesn’t exist for this fic lol😭

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

McLaren had decided to sign you for the 2024 season after Oscar signed to go somewhere else. You were beyond excited to be teammates with Lando, he was someone you looked up to. He was almost just like you.

So far in the first 5 races you’ve started with the best rookie year. Getting p3 2 times and p2 1 time and p4 2 times. But the Miami Grand Prix, the 6th race.

You ended up spinning out almost mid race. Your anxiety kicked in, worried about what people will think about for you crashing on social media. It was like the walk of shame once you got back to the pit lane walking to the McLaren.

Your anxiety made it seem like everyone was watching and looking at you. You stand next to your engineer and watch the rest of the race there. You started picking at round your nails,something you do out of habit.

Your eyes light up when Lando starts to lead the race at the last. You watch as everyone starts to cheer as this will be their star boys first win in formula one. You try to keep smiling and being happy but your anxiety is still eating at you.

You started picking your nails to much making a few fingers bleed, grabbing the bandaids they had in the garage and putting them on the fingers that were bleeding.

You soon watched as the garage erupted into cheers everyone hugging someone. Lando won his first race. You smile when you listen to his radio. He sounded so happy. When he pulls up to the number 1 spot and getting out his car, the cheers in the stands were loud.

You stand to the side when the team is against the barriers waiting for him to celebrate. You watch as he runs to them and jumps the barriers into their arms. You smile at them, happy that he finally won a race.

You watch as he did his interview and went to the cool down room. Your anxiety started to get bad as you started getting uncomfortable even standing. You knew that your panic attack was coming, you always got uncomfortable no matter when or where you knew that was a sign it was coming.

You walk to your drivers room not trying to disturb or make a scene. You sat on the small couch in the room, pulling your knees to your chest trying to calm down.

Lando was up on the podium, first step. He looked down at his team while the British national anthem played. He noticed you weren’t there, he saw how you stood away when he was celebrating with the team, picking your nails. He decided to enjoy his moment. In the back of his head he worried about you.

He celebrated with the team a little more and did a few more interviews before he started to worry about you. It’s been almost 30 minutes and he still hasn’t seen you. “Where is she?” He asked your race engineer. “Last I seen she went into her drivers room?” They told Lando.

He rushed to your drivers room. He knocked on the door. “Darling, It’s me, let me in.” Lando said softly. “C-come in.” You said through short breaths. He walks in closing the door behind him.

He looks at your current state. Teary eyes, stuffy nose, short breaths, and bandaids on your fingers. He walks over and sits next to you. He’s had to help you before sometimes after a bad practice or qualifying.

“I’m here darling.” He spoke softly making you look at him. “Listen to my voice not the ones in that pretty head.” He says to you. “Breathe with me.” He takes deep breaths with you. “Listen to my heartbeat” he said pulling you to his chest laying your head on his chest.

You slowly calm down and breathe normally again. “Sorry for ruining your special day.” You spoke quietly when you felt ready to speak. “Don’t apologize, I did my celebrating I knew you weren’t ok and knew you needed me” he spoke pressing a kiss to your head. “You did great today through, wasn’t your fault you crashed” he said rubbing your back. “Let me see your phone.” He said with a hand out and you hand him you phone. “I’m keeping this until we go our separate ways, you don’t need to worry.” He said stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“Thank you.” You spoke with a smile. “I’ll always be here for you, even if in the future we aren’t teammates, and I know what you’re thinking, you’ll win a race soon, and I’ll be right there to celebrate with you.” He said looking down at you.

You smile at him and nod. “Let’s go celebrate your first win!” You said excitedly your anxiety now gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[lipglossanon]

Someday

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

stepbro!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader (beach one shot)

this went in a weird direction but instead of scrapping it, I’m posting so 🤷‍♀️ enjoy lmao lots of smut 👌

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, protective Leon, perv Leon, kissing, dirty talk, nipple play, teasing, grinding, public sexual situations lol, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread

Title from Someday by Sugar Ray ☀️

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

This place is warm without a care

We'll take a swim in the deep blue sea

I go to leave and you reach for me

—"Someday"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Quit pushing!"

"But you're in my space!"

"If you guys don't behave, I will turn this car around!"

The squabbling in the back seat cut short as Leon glares you. 

He leans over and flicks your arm when you’re not looking; you hiss at the sting, smacking him on the forearm in retaliation. 

"Leon," his dad warningly calls out from the driver’s seat, looking at him through the rear view mirror. 

"What?" he glares at you still, rubbing the smarting skin, "she literally started it, I was just paying her back.”

"Yeah, but you know better," his dad sighs before moving his attention to you, “please let’s all just get along and enjoy our day.”

You smile, “Of course,” turning your attention to Leon you bat your eyelashes, “I am so sorry, big brother.” 

"Whatever," he rolls his eyes, flipping you off once his dad turns back to the road.

Your mom claps her hands, “Look alive kids, we’re here!”

"Finally," Leon breaths out, opening the passenger door and slipping out once his dad parks the car. 

Everyone piles out of the vehicle and makes their way to the back hatch. Your stepdad opens it and pulls out the coolers holding food and drinks.

"Here make yourself useful,” Leon sneers as he shoves a tote full of towels and sunblock into your arms. 

Your mom pats you on the back, “I got the beach umbrella so we’ll go find a spot!”

You stick your tongue out at Leon and turn along with your mom to walk along the boardwalk to the sandy beach below. It doesn’t take long to find a decent spot, staking down the umbrella and tossing the beach blanket down onto the sand. Leon sets down the coolers near the side while his dad hands out the beach chairs to be setup. 

Once everything is in order, you sit back on your haunches with a sigh. Rooting around through your own bag, you grab a few things and stand up. 

“I’m heading over to the changing rooms,” you jerk your thumb behind you, to the wooden building, “shouldn’t take long.”

Your mom nods, “Okay, make sure to lock the door. Actually Leon, walk with her. You never know these days.”

You roll your eyes and walk backwards, “I’m totally fine mom, you can see the building from here.”

Leon’s dad nods at him, “Just maybe walk over that way with her and if it seems fine just mosey on back.”

Leon smirks at you, “You heard’em, little sis.”

He gets up from the blanket and walks over to you; spinning you around, he gives you a gentle push to walk forward.

“I don’t need the help,” you snip at him, elbowing his side so there’s more space between you.  

“Hey I’m just following orders. Besides,” he leans more into your space with a leer, “maybe I just wanted to see what kinda bathing suit you picked out.”

You roll your eyes, tamping down the heat that washes over you from his words. 

“Whatever, perv,” you climb the wooden steps and find an empty room. 

Hesitating, you look back at Leon before stepping inside, “Are you going to be out here?”

His arms are crossed as he leans against the banister, a deadpan expression in his face.

“Unless you want me in there with you, yeah I’ll be out here.”

Nodding, you completely step into the changing room and shut the door. It’s pretty nondescript but just something about it is giving you the ick. A low noise comes from behind the wall, probably just from someone changing in the next room. 

You tug your shirt off, already wearing a bathing top underneath— you just wanted to swap it for the more colorful one you brought along. A weird sound next door has you jumping in place. 

“Leon?”

“Yeah?” you can hear his muffled voice on the other side of the door. 

Another raspy noise comes from the other side of the wall giving you goosebumps. You swing your door open and gesture him inside. His mouth opens, probably about to make fun of you, when the look on your face cuts him short. 

He enters the changing room with you, keeping quiet as you hold your finger up to your lips. The strange noise happens again but louder, making you press into Leon’s side, hands gripping onto his thin tee shirt until your knuckles blanch. 

You both stand still, ears cocked and listening as that weird noise happens again. Leon reaches out and raps his hand hard on the wall. The noise stops and you both hear something scurry away from the wall. 

“Don’t change in here. We can go to the car,” Leon whispers to you, eyes serious, “definitely gonna report this to whoever’s on duty. Fucking creep.”

“Leon,” you whisper back, relief making tears prick your lash line, “thank you.”

“Hey, of course,” he murmurs softly, warm palms coming up to cup your jaw, “you’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, promise.”

You nod in his hold, pressing into his body even further. Your hands come up to wind in his hair and pull him down. He takes the hint and presses your lips together, kissing you softly. 

Leon pushes until your back is flat against the wall, never breaking his kiss. 

“You’re my girl,” he growls as he kisses a hot trail to your ear, tongue dipping inside, “no one gets to see you but me.”

“Leon,” you whimper, tugging on his hair as he nips at your neck before kissing down to your clavicle.

“Wish I could do more right now,” he murmurs into your skin, dragging his mouth down to the swell of your breasts in your bathing suit top, “just gonna get a little taste and we’ll head back, okay?”

Nodding, you have no idea what you’re agreeing to, when Leon noses the fabric covering one of your breasts over until he can suck your nipple easily into his hot mouth. 

“Just a taste, princess,” he whispers, moving over to the other hard bud and suckling.

He keeps you pressed to the wall as he lathes and sucks on your nipples until they’re hard and swollen. Your bathing suit bottoms are soaked with slick when he finally pulls back, eyes dark and heated. 

He slips his fingers under your top and pulls it upright, letting go with a snap. You cry out from the sting on your puffy nipples as your top now covers them. 

“C’mon, we need to head back before they come looking.”

“But..”

He grins at you, teeth gleaming, “What is it? Is my little sis feeling needy?”

You nod your head, “Please, big brother, I’m so wet.”

His fingers dip beneath the band of your shorts and bottoms to glide across your slippery clit. You cry out and bury your face in his chest. 

“Oh? She is,” he coos, “she needs me so bad huh, princess?”

He dips his head lower, whispering filth in your ear and making you rock against his fingers as they circle your pudgy clit. 

“Mmm I’d love to get on my knees and kiss your pretty pussy all over,” he licks the shell of your ear, “she loves getting kissed by big brother, always so fucking wet after I makeout with your cunt, isn’t that right?”

“Uh huh,” you whine, “feels good. Big brother makes my pussy so wet.”

“Fuck,” he grits out, fingers circling and pinching your clit over and over, “when we get home, I’m pushing you down and railing your little princess pussy, got that? I’m gonna use you all fucking night, so you’ll just have to keep that hole wet and ready for me. Can you do that for big brother, huh?“

“Yes, yes, please, want that,” you slur, thighs tensing as your orgasm winds tighter in your belly, “want big brother to fill me up.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” he laughs meanly, “you can only get off if I’m creaming in this tight cunt anyways.”

You whine and hump down into his fingers, “Love it, love getting your creampies.”

“God damn, princess,” his fingers slide across your clit roughly, “cum for me, get my fingers soaking wet.”

“Oh, Leon, I’m—“

You shudder in his arms, muffling your moans in his shirt as you shake apart on his fingers. Riding out the soft tremors, Leon finally slips his hand away and laps up the clear slick webbing across his fingers. 

“So fucking juicy,” he growls, free hand coming up to twist one of your nipples making you whine, “can’t wait til we get home.” 

He kisses you one last time before opening the door, letting you leave first. You both look around but luckily the whole area is deserted. He gives you a little push toward the stairs. 

“Go catch up with them, I’m gonna look around for whoever’s in charge and file that report.”

You watch Leon’s broad back as he walks around the corner and warmth flutters in your chest as you make your way back over to your mom and stepdad. 

“Finally, thought you two got lost,” your mom smiles, patting the blanket, “let me put sunblock on your back and shoulders and you can skedaddle.”

Your stepdad looks over at you and then glances around, “Where’d Leon get off to?”

“He said he’d be back, needed to do something.”

He nods and goes back to his book. Your mom finishes up with the sunblock and puts it back in her bag. 

“Make sure to drink plenty of water.”

“I know, mom,” you roll your eyes good naturedly, “I’m gonna go wade for a bit, see if I can find any cool shells.”

“Have fun,” she plops her big sun hat on her head and lays out on the blanket. 

You wander down the beach until your toes meet the small waves kissing the shore. Wading out into the warm water, you take in all the people. It’s really nice and peaceful even with all the racket; easy to let it fade into the background with the sound of the ocean echoing in your ears. 

“You wanna build a sand castle?”

Leon’s voice behind you makes you jump, quickly turning to face him.

“You serious?” you squint at him, still feeling out of depth with the whole fiasco earlier. 

“Yeah, let’s go build one,” his eyes are something else with the ocean reflecting off the already prismatic blue, “I know where the good sand is.”

You smile, reaching your hand out to see if he’ll take it. Surprisingly, he does. He leads you back away from the water but not too far in order to reach the ‘better sand’. 

"This is a lot of fun," you murmur, brushing shoulders with Leon as you try to dig out a moat.

"Yeah even if you’re complete shit at it,” he smirks, side eyeing you. 

"Hey," you push his shoulder, leaving a damp hand print on his shirt, "I’ve made like three sandcastles in my life, so lay off.”

"Doesn’t matter,” Leon shrugs then laughs, “I'm going to absolutely destroy this when we're done.”

You frown, "But why?"

“It’ll just wash out with the tide otherwise.”

You roll your eyes, “Such a dork. Think I might go for a swim since it’s gotten hotter just sitting here.”

"I'll go with you," he stands up and slips his shirt off making your mouth feel dry, "don’t want you to drown while my back is turned”

You mock salute him while trying not to stare at his chest, "Aye, aye, captain."

Leon ruffles your hair, "Last one in the water is a rotten egg."

He takes off running with you right behind him. 

“You’re such a cheater! You didn’t even countdown!”

"Snooze ya lose, princess,” he laughs, splashing into the ocean before whirling on you and grabbing you around you waist. 

“Hold your breath,” he murmurs hotly in your ear before he’s pulling you under with him. 

You’re not under long and Leon brings you both back up to the surface with you holding onto his biceps for dear life. 

“You’re such a jerk!” you yell, salt water running into your eyes making them sting, “I’m going to murder you!”

“Like to see you try,” he laughs loudly, faking like he’s going to dunk you before yanking you back to his chest. 

Your hands wrap around his neck while your legs wrap around his waist, squeaking as he fakes dipping you both under again. 

“You’re so mean,” you pout as he wraps his hands around your hips. 

“What else is new, princess,” he laughs, shaking the water from his hair. 

He eases out a little further, holding you in his arms as he treads water. 

“Can’t wait to get home,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. 

“Leon,” you whine, “anyone can see us.”

“Yeah? We’re too far off for them to know what’s happening. Just kiss me, little sis.”

You sigh as he places more soft kisses on your neck.

“You got me?”

Giving him a puzzled look, you nod, “Yeah…”

He slowly lets go of your hips and once you stay buoyant, he grins. 

“Since the waters up to our shoulders,” he smirks, hands coming up to grope and squeeze your breasts, “I’m gonna have some fun.”

“No, don’t,” you squirm, but don’t let go; letting him touch you like this is exciting. 

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re lying.”

He pulls the cups of your bathing top down exposing your breasts to his greedy hands. Pulling and tugging on your nipples has you rocking into him with a moan. 

“Leon,” you keen, head laying against his shoulder, “we’re gonna get caught.”

“Fuck,” he groans, pinching your nipples extra hard, “I’d love that, love to see someone know that you’re getting off on big brother playing with your sexy tits.”

You whimper and press your chest harder into his hands, “Gonna get in trouble.”

“No we won’t,” he chuckles, letting his fingers tease across the swell of your breasts and circle your hard buds, “‘long as you can sit pretty and take it, I’ll play with these cute fucking tits the rest of the day.”

That visual alone makes you rut against his chubbed cock with a moan. 

“Like that?” he laughs and pinches your nipples too hard making you squeal.  

“Think you can cum like this? Rubbing that hot pussy all on me while I suck on your nipples?” his voice rumbles in your ear

“Uh huh,” you shudder nails digging into his back.

“So hot,” he turns his back to the beach and shifts you up higher so can dip his head and latch onto a swollen bud.

You lose track of time, letting Leon suckle and bite at your nipples til they’re puffy and sore as you rub off on him, cumming twice before he even pulls away. 

“Probably need to go back in,” his voice is hoarse while his eyes are nearly dilated black, “been out here for awhile.”

Your brain is total slush at this point and you agree wholeheartedly. 

“Thirsty,” you mutter into his neck as he fixes your top.

“There’s water in the cooler,” he double checks to make sure you’re both presentable before wading back to the beach.

Once the water’s waist high you drop your legs and walk next to him, pushing your shaking muscles to keep you up. Once you get back to the blanket, your mom is reading and your step dad’s conked out with sunglasses on his face. 

You smile and flop down next to Leon who hands you a cold water. 

“Thank you,” you keep your voice low.

He shrugs and cracks open his water and drinks it in like two seconds. 

“You kids about ready to go?” 

Your mom’s voice sounds sleepy. 

“Seems like you two are,” you tease making her laugh and she taps your stepdad’s arm. 

He jostles awake with a snort making you giggle as Leon grins. 

“We’re ready to go honey,” your mom kisses his cheek. 

“Of course,” he stretches and yawns, “Leon you feel like loading up?”

“Can do,” he stands up and starts bundling things in his arms. 

You stand and start collecting the little things he doesn’t have the hands for; you both walk over to your mom’s SUV and Leon sets his stuff down and grabs your armload. 

“Go grab them and the blanket and we should be set.”

“You don’t want—“

“I got it,” he pushes you with a shit eating grin on his face, “trust me.”

You squint at him suspiciously but listen and go grab your parents and the folded up beach blanket. 

When you get back, you see Leon somehow finagled the beach stuff in such a way that you end up sitting in his lap on the drive home cause there just isn’t enough room otherwise. 

His dad pokes fun at him, “Must’ve gotten too much sun eh son?”

Leon rolls his eyes as he tugs you onto his lap in the third row seating, “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

Your mom laughs, “Well just make sure to be safe back there.”

“Will do,” you and Leon chime in at the same time making her laugh again. 

As soon as your stepdad leaves the parking lot, Leon’s hands are under your shirt plucking and tweaking your overstimulated nipples. You twist in his lap, placing your legs on either side of his seat, facing him to eagerly makeout. It’s not long before you’re grinding against his bulge. 

He fishes his dick out, grabbing your hand and guiding you to jerk him off. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, “stroke it. Fuck wish I was in your mouth.”

“Me too,” you kiss him sloppily as he pinches your nipples hard. 

“Y’wanna suck big brother off? Mmm but our parents would hear it wouldn’t they? That tight throat choking on me.”

“Mmhmm, I’d gag so much,” your hand eagerly strokes his dick, “you’re just too big for my mouth.” 

“But not for that pussy”, he growls, moving one hand from your nipples to slide under the leg of your shorts and swim bottoms to tease along your slit.   

You have to kiss him to stop the moan from giving you both away. 

Once he pulls back, Leon smirks at you, “Gotta keep quiet or they’ll find out what a slut you are.”

You pout, “Just feels so good.” 

“Let me stick it in,” he whispers in your ear, “just let me slip the tip in, ‘m so hard it hurts, princess.” 

“Just the tip,” you agree, slipping your shorts and bottoms off. 

He pulls the foreskin back on his fat tip to spank against your clit making you bite your lip hard. Pressing into your soaked cunt, the head stretches you open making you sigh.  

“Don’t you want the rest?” he coos sarcastically.  

“You said just the tip,” you mumble against his mouth. 

Leon listens for about half a minute before he grabs your hips and forces you to sink down. Force is a strong word as you easily go along with it. 

“So bad, taking me all the way into this tiny pussy,” he teases, mouth pressed against your ear, “making me stretch you out on my cock like you just can’t help it, princess.”

You rock down on him muffling your sounds by pressing your face into his chest. Your body is ramped up and ready for another orgasm easily, the coil of arousal tight in your belly already. 

“Mmm, sucking me in,” he hisses, hands digging into the meat of your hips hard, “been fucking edged all day, so this is gonna be messy, princess. Cute pussy’s bout to be filled to the brim.”

You lift your head and let your hazy eyes meet his making him curse under his breath. 

“You’re cockdrunk,” he laughs meanly, “gonna make me cum cause a’your needy fucking face.”

He grinds up harshly into your fluttering walls as his thumb swipes over your hot, swollen clit. 

“Want it, big brother,” you whimper, eyes teary as your orgasm begins to reach its peak, “please, want you to cum inside me.”

“You’re getting a nice load princess don’t worry,” his grip on your hip keeps you in place as he ruts into your pussy and circles your clit with his thumb, “squeeze me, squeeze down on my cock and I’ll give you want you want.”

You kiss him messily, tongue licking into his smirking mouth as your climax shakes your body to pieces. You feel as your pussy tightens down on his cock so hard it must hurt but Leon likes it if his groan’s anything to go by. Your fluttering walls milk his cock as he ruts up one last time and spills inside your clenching pussy. 

You pull away from his mouth, both of you panting against each others lips, just sharing the same space as you cum together.  His cock kicks and throbs as sticky jizz fills your cunt, hot rope after rope of cum shooting from his fat tip. 

Your pussy pulses and clamps rhythmically, aftershocks making your thighs shake as your hands grip onto the upholstery of the seat. 

“Hope you’re not too tired,” he grins, “told you I’m gonna rail you when we get home and I still mean it.”

You rock down on him with a mewl, “Can’t wait, big brother.”

[starsomens]

Headcanon for Noah who first met Y/N and his first impression of her was that she was shy and sweet

Fast forward a few years later, they’re now dating and her true colours show that she’s actually a menace. She’s hyper, chaotic, she bites Noah sometimes (he’d bite back in retaliation), when they go out shopping sometimes, she gets distracted and gets lost (ADHD lol)

she’d call him dude sometimes instead of babe or baby and has a energy of a ginger cat

I’m sorry this is a lot but I like the idea of a calm boyfriend and his chaotic tiny girlfriend

"she's adorable" was his first thought the second he had his first interaction with you

He loved the way you could only hold eye contact with him for about 30 seconds and right away look away and bite your lip

the way your cheeks would blush and how you'd trip over your words

He thought you were adorable! In addition to being adorable he thought you were just the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. You were so hypnotizing to speak with, and just the sweetest!

He had to take you on a date! and so he did :) and took you on more and more and finally made it official :D

The first year was great, you were getting more comfortable with one another, opening up and feeling just so in love

You met his friends, had gone to the studio to watch him and even went backstage to one of their shows.

Once you hit 2 1/2 years there was a change........in you :3

this man was NOT expecting the amount of ADHD and biting he was going to be in the middle of

Comes home from work, cuddling on the sofa with a movie and soft caresses and lil kisses...only for his arm to be met with either a bite or a lick

🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️"babe?"🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

this was the first time you had ever bitten him and he was just confused but then you looked up at him and he thought it was funny and just oh so cute! He responds to this by pinching your cheeks or even biting you back

Now in the evenings just before bed he's watching you have a mini concert in his clothes and even pretending to be him on stage with his screams, bending backwards and his spins. And yes he does clap at the end of your performance

Some days you just wanna sleep in and others you're just running from one side of the house to the other

He either films you and keeps them as memories, or joins in. Next thing you know you're both running around the house giggling like little kids because of the sudden rush of energy

"So then, Oh my god! She says 'well if you don't want to work then you can get your shit and tell him that....that..... "

"That what babe?" he asks for you to finish the story

".....ah shit I completely forgot what she said "

He thought you were doing it for jokes...but you were serious you couldn't recall what it was you were talking about or what you friend had ended up doing in the tense situation. Noah gets left on a lot cliffhangers and he's just waiting for the moment where you blurt out how it ends

2:49 am "..pst noah....are you awake?" you poke his face

"mmmmm" was all he could manage

"well he ended up taker her keys and stealing her car! Can you believe that?!" you whisper yell

He just brings you into him, covers your face and goes "shh...sleep"

then a few seconds later he goes ".....what a piece of shit...."

"I know right?"

“Kay….sleep….now”

「✨Taglist✨」 @lilhobgobbler @cncohshit @vir-tual @tdopomymind @concretenoah @misspygmypie @fvckmeorchokeme @lust-for-sacher @thescarlettvvitch @cind6547 @itsmrsfuentes @just-pretend-again @lma1986 @daylightlvrs @darling-millicent-aubrey

[sondheim-girly]

Fav moments in outsiders GMA performance (warning I’m gonna use actor names instead of character names cuz it’s easier for me, but please know that 95% of the time this isn’t about the actors lmao):

-when Brody and sky start singing together and you can see that they’re both genuinely smiling and laughing with each other and it’s so cute

-“they’ll do all that they can to keep you poor and scared”

-when all the greasers are revealed Brent’s kinda hugging Anna and it’s so cute

-at the same time Tilly’s messing with Daryl, then she reaches up to Renni, then kinda hugs Brent’s leg and he leans into her AND ITS SO CUTE HRHFJDH

-Daryl and Brody doing the handshake

-Jason greeting sky then audibly slapping Josh strobl with the rag 😭

-Jason slapping Brody with the rag

-the way Emma’s with kwp and they’re being all romantic and then basically immediately she’s lifted into the air by rj and kwp is forgotten

-melody and Barton are so cute before they start dancing together, just watch them lol

-Kevin csolak also holds saragrace up before the socs dance, but not nearly as high as Emma and it kinda looks funny 

-Brody spinning tilly

-kwp and Dan berry just chilling and watching during all the dancing is so funny to me

-Kevin csolak kinda tries to go to I think Brody, but sarahgrace pulls him back

-Jason hugging Tilly in the final pose

-and don’t forget all of Brody’s riffs in the entire song. Special shoutout to the run he does on “just one thing”

-whatever the fuck Trevi’s doing during “some of us are cool like James dean” KILLS ME LMAO

-Daryl having his arm around sky on the car is so cuteee

-Brody not being quick on his feet

-TREVI MEWING

-when Joshua Boone goes over to sky and they have this really cute moment and ugshhddhhf the tragedy hits 😭

-Anna and Josh strobl just vibing on the car for the entirety of ggah

-Trevi flipping and everyone doing their own thing after “no we ain’t got money, but we got something to prove”

-Trevi and Jordan chin doing the handshake

-Brody looks so blank when Jason is greasing his hair

-at the very end when Daryl pretends to throw dirt that isn’t there then motions to the camera 😭

-Renni hanging upside down on the bars

-just the fact that all the swings got to go and seeing their separate costumes and everything makes me so happy

ok that’s it for now lmao

[revasserium]

I can do this, I thought. Then: And even if I can't, I have to.

Karasuno request, lol

from David Levithan, How they Met and Other Stories

prompt list reqs are: temporarily closed

can, would, have

atsumu; 3,045 words; fluff, childhood friends to lovers, no "y/n", highschool to post-timeskip, kissing and banter, lapslock bc lazy

summary: there's no could have. not for him, anyway.

a/n: is this my hq!! revival phase? network @houseofsolisoccasum

there’s no such thing as could have — there’s only did, or didn’t.

can or couldn’t.

it’s something that he’s always said, though you’d never really thought about it. till now.

“you did it!”

“course we did,” atsumu drags a hand across his chin, feeling the sweat slick off his skin even as you press a cool, damp towel into his hand. he reaches out to pinch your cheek, smirking when you swat him away, pushing a bottle of pocari sweat into his chest.

“mm — for a second there, it looked like you were gonna drop a set — mmph…”

your words are cut off by a pair of large, warm palms squishing your cheeks together, forcing your face back up to meet dark, honeyed eyes. they’re narrowed as atsumu levels you with a frown.

“oi oi oi, don’t you dare doubt us now — this ain’t the u-19’s for nothin’!”

you make a valiant attempt at rolling your eyes, even as atsumu holds your face steady.

“right. so… everyone else here’s supposed to be just as good, no?” you grin cheekily up at him as he finally lets go of your face to wipe his palms on his jersey.

“alright, alright — that was a great series of scrimmages, but you all must be hungry! dinner time!” the coach hibarida says, clapping his hands, a wide, fatherly smile crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“don’t forget to stretch properly!” he calls as the crowd of teenage boys start to break off a few at a time, heading for the gymnasium doors.

“yeah, ‘tsumu — y’hear? you gotta stretch properly,” you parrot, grinning as atsumu whips around to glare at you, halfway through reaching down for his gym bag.

it is not the first winter break you’d spent with atsumu (and by extension, his twin osamu), but it might be your last for a few years, though neither of you knew it at the time. because youth, as everyone no longer considered youthful by an standard knows (painfully, immutably), is truly wasted on the young.

wasted because it is never treasured the way it ought to be. wasted, because time isn’t yet a concept that they’ve been caught victim to.

“you really think you’re invincible, don’t you?” you ask, one night, towards the end of training camp, when the air is still cold enough to make you tug your jacket around your shoulders.

atsumu hums, spinning a volleyball absently with one hand, a grimace digging its way between his brows as he looks at you.

“why’re you always askin’ me stupid questions?”

“how’s that a stupid question?”

“cause you already know the answer, duh.”

atsumu rolls his eyes, tossing the volleyball up and catching it before bumping it lightly on the top of your head.

“i’m asking you because i’m not sure about the answer. i… i know what you might say, but… i don’t know that you will. not… a hundred percent…” your words trail off as atsumu blinks down at you, looking nonplussed.

“ha? i mean — i don’t get half’a what you just said but — uh — i guess i do think i’m invincible. why? don’t you?” there’s a twang to the end of his words, like a tease or a test. you pause to cast your eyes up at the moon, round as white as a rime of rice —

“i think… that whatever you believe… you’re right.”

you smile, satisfied with your own answer, even as atsumu makes a strange, low-level groaning noise that sounds something like a car engine refusing to start. your smile lopes into a smirk as you turn to glance at him.

“eugh… you’re so weird.” atsuma shivers, tossing the volleyball up again. he twists away before you can see the inexplicable heat washing into his cheeks; he speeds up his pace, forcing you to jog to keep up with him as he makes his way back to the youth camp dorms.

“t-tsumu! wait!”

he only twists around to stick his tongue out at you before turning to dash off, cackling into the night. you chase him all the way to the entrance of the dorms, where he swivels around to catch you round the middle, the pair of you toppling into a patch of manicured lawn. you yelp as you realize that the grass is still damp from a recent bout of watering, but atsumu’s hold is firm and you can’t get free, no matter how hard you try.

so you allow yourself to go slack in his arms, laughing and laughing, your face pressing into his chest. his whole body shakes because he’s laughing too, but at a certain point, he quiets down just to watch you, to listen to you, to soak in the rich, generous sound of your laughter.

“c’mon, we’re gonna get in trouble!” you say, still laughing, your eyes bright beneath the darkened sky, cut with shiver shafts of moonlight.

“mm, didn’tcha know? trouble’s basically my middle name,” atsumu says, though he lets himself be pulled up, one hand clasped in both of yours. and your smile, when you look back up at him, is bright enough to put every single star to shame.

—

“it’s alright — you can say it,” atsumu says, a few months later, walking off the spring tournament court, karasuno’s cheers and shouts still fresh in all your ears. you bite your lips, shaking your head.

“i… i don’t know what you want me to say…” you admit, head drooping as osamu slams a hand into the locker room door and atsumu buries his fingers in his hair.

“say — say that you knew it! say that you told us so! y-you’re always sayin’ we goof off too much so —”

“but that’s not true,” you say, your voice steady, even as your heart thunders behind your ears, blood rushing into your head, your cheeks, the backs of your eyes, until your whole head is pounding and you have to steady yourself against one of the faded metal lockers.

“you asked… if i thought i was invincible,” atsumu says, his voice low — too low for the rest of the team to hear. faintly, you feel rather than see osamu shift by the door, his sweat-drenched hair still covering his eyes. but you know he’s listening.

“i — i did,” you admit.

atsumu sighs, “i… i guess i’m just not smart enough to doubt stuff like that.”

your eyes flash up, catching his with such a sharp look that he almost stumbles back. you purse your lips, curling your fingers into your palms hard enough to sting. there are bruises on your legs from all the late nights you’d stayed to help them practice, scars and scuffs on your arms from all the times a stray volleyball had flown out the court and found you instead.

“yeah, well —” you find your voice oddly steady as you press him back against the lockers with a firm hand, your eyes hard and certain —

“i’m smart enough not to.”

—

he does not win his first game with the jackals, but at least you’re not there to see. not there in person, at least. because when atsumu gets off the court to check his phone, he sees a missed call and another one incoming.

he sighs and picks it up.

“if you’re just callin’ to rub it all in —”

“you did good,” you say. and it stops him in his tracks. and then —

“well. not good enough.” his voice is quiet, is flat, is not quite like himself.

“so you’ll do better next time.”

“hn. could’ve done better this time.”

there’s a silence across the line that makes atsumu pause, makes him straighten up as he tugs open a bottle of sports drink and chugs half of it before wiping the back of his hand across his lips, feeling the sweat slick off his skin.

“there’s no such thing as could have,” you say, your voice even, your words solid and steady as the passage of time itself.

neither of you are children anymore. but you’re still young enough to act like it, sometimes.

atsumu grins, chuckling as you stares down at the sports drink in his hand, “yeah. guess there ain’t. just gotta do better next time.”

he can hear your smile in the way you breath out, “yep. simple as that.”

—

they do not win the olympics, but they get close enough.

“we’ll get the gold next time,” atsumu says, leaning back as hoshiumi loudly challenges bokuto to another drinking game and hinata hiccups, laughing with kuroo.

in the corner, osamu is grinning as he chats with some old high school friends, kita and aran each nursing a beer each, though osamu is still wearing his server’s apron.

all around you, people are drinking and laughing and eating.

you run a thumb around the lip of your drink, a bubbly cocktail of some sort that’s probably too alcoholic for your own good.

“i’m sure you will.”

“what? you don’t believe me?”

you laugh, shaking your head, “it doesn’t really matter what i believe, does it? you’ll get what you want, no matter what.”

your voice is soft, and atsumu pauses, his eyes flickering down to your lips. your entire body stills as you notice him noticing you. you fight the urge to purse your lips.

“ah…” atsumu turns to face you properly, setting his drink down with a dull clunk. you swallow, unable to help the way your heart flutters inside your chest. you thought you’d done a good job of keeping your feelings to yourself. you thought you’d gotten home safe.

because you’d grown up friends — hadn’t you? best friends. with him, and his twin and — your eyes skip over towards the corner where most of the inarizaki grads are sitting; you find osamu watching the pair of you with a knowing smile. the moment he catches your eyes, he cocks his head and has the audacity to wink before letting his gaze slip back towards aran and rintaro.

“oi. where’dyou think you’re lookin’, hm? ain’t we supposed to be celebrating my insane olympics debut?”

your attention snaps back to atsumu, now leaning down way too far, pressing into your personal space.

you purse your lips, “celebrating you? it’s the national team, right?”

atsumu rolls his eyes, leaning back with a soul-heavy sigh, “ah — you’re no fun.”

you bite back a laugh; he’d always been so good at making you laugh.

atsumu’s arm brushes against yours, and all of a sudden, you feel your stomach lurch, your entire body on high alert as he reaches over to sling his arm casually over your shoulders, pulling you close.

“so. you think we got it in the bag next time?”

you’re stiff for three seconds before you force yourself to relax. it’s not the first time he’s been this touchy, not even the first time he’s held you like this, looped into his side, tucking you into his body as if that’s just where you’d always belonged.

“in four years?” you ask, peering up at him as he reaches up to tug at the ends of your hair, “sure, if you think so.”

“if i think so? hm… you’ve always said weird stuff like that.”

“have i?”

he ruffles your hair, and you reach up to swat at his hand, but he catches your wrist, tracing up your skin till he slots his fingers through yours, and suddenly, he’s pressing you back into the bar, the hard edge digging into your lower back as he looms over you with that god-forsaken smirk — sweet and lazy as a summer moon.

“tell me,” he drawls, letting his vowels stretch out on his tongue like toffee, his voice dipping dangerously low, “if i were to ask you to kiss me… what’dyou think you’d say?”

“w-what do i think?”

“mhm,” he nods, leaning in further, till his nose is almost brushing yours.

you’re stomach-twistingly aware that you’re both standing in the middle of an izakaya, rented out by the japanese national team, filled to the brim with people who have know the both of you for far too long.

and still, all it takes is one smooth sweep of his dark, thick brows for your world to spin down to a single turning point — to him and you and the negative space caught between the pair of you, to the gravity of your lips and his, to your shared breaths twisting in the solid, stagnant air.

“i think… that you’re… not as stupid as you make yourself out to be,” you say, quietly, so that no one else can hear. but somehow, you wonder if everyone can hear you, because you can’t seem to hear anything else. not the ruckus of the karasuno alums, not the clink of chopsticks on flatware, not the dull thunks of glasses being put down and picked up and put back down again.

“see?” atsumu says, cocking his head, seemingly satisfied with your answer, though he makes no move to hide the fact that his eyes track down the length of your face to fix on your lips.

where they stay, and stay, and stay.

“i-if you were to ask me for a kiss… what do you think i’d say?” your words are breathless. eager. in a way that you’ve no power nor wish to take back.

atsumu’s grin stretches as he makes a mock contemplative noise.

“i think… that whatever i believe… i’m right.”

“a-and… what do you believe?”

atsumu’s lips are so close to yours you almost feel the weight of them against your skin; you let out a sharp exhale, your chest aching like an open wound.

“well… i believe…” atsumu traces a finger along the line of your jaw, holding your face still as he cocks his head to one side, watching you with those dark, hungry eyes of his —

“that you’re mine.”

you inhale, the sound sharp and short and wanting.

“and,” he adds, tugging you in till it’s really a miracle there’s any space left between the pair of you at all, “that you’ve always been mine.”

“then…” your lashes flutter; his thumb draws tiny circles against your chin, “i guess… you’d be right.”

faintly, you register that his lips taste like overpriced beer and ricecakes. faintly, you register that someone is clapping, that someone else is cheering, and then that someone else is telling the first two people to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.

you don’t care — because there, atsumu is kissing you. and you’re kissing him back. and of all the things you’ve thought and believe, you don’t know if you’d ever thought this would come to pass, if you’d ever believed hard enough that he might even feel the slightest bit the same way that you do. that you’d always done.

but it doesn’t matter, because clearly, he’d believed enough for the both of you.

when he pulls away, it’s with a satisfied smirk, your lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, staccato pants.

“ah — tsumu —”

“mm… always wondered what my name’d sound like comin’ out your mouth like that…” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair absently from your cheek, before trailing his finger down your face to tip your head back up towards his again.

“h-have you?”

“mhm,” he nods, humming as he traps you against him with his free arm looping around your middle, “sure have.”

“that’s — why — why didn’t you — earlier —” words tumble from your mouth, and atsumu seems content to catch them between his lips as they fall. he grins at your relative incoherence, pulling back with a wicked grin.

“cause… i was a stupid, volleyball-obsessed kid. still kinda am sometimes…” atsumu cocks his head to one side, slow and steady, his eyes dark, half-hooded as he blinks down at you, “but i’d like to think i’ve gotten… a lil bit smarter. though you were always smart ‘nough for the both of us, hm?”

he taps your nose affectionately, and suddenly, it’s as if someone’s turned the volume back on in the izakaya, and all the sound comes flooding back in. you bury your face in his chest, curling your fingers into the front of atsumu’s loose-fitting shirt.

“don’t really feel smart right now,” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as your cheeks begin to burn.

atsumu tuts, running his fingers through your hair, “ah… don’t go thinkin’ bout stuff that could’ve been — i’ve told you before, right? there ain’t no could have. only did and didn’t —”

“can and couldn’t —” you finish for him, lifting your head back up to meet his soft, certain gaze.

“though… i think i’ve learned enough to add one more to that list…” atsumu runs a thumb along your bottom lip, his dark eyes going even darker as his pupils dilate at the parting of your mouth.

“bet i can guess,” you say, feeling the spark of that familiar, youthful recklessness bubbling up inside you.

“oh yeah?”

“sure — will and…” you lean in, reaching up to tangle your fingers into the hairs at the nape of his neck. your revel in the way he gasps.

“kiss me,” you say, batting your lashes, “won’t you?”

atsumu hisses as you tug on the ends of his hair; when he twists to look back down at you, all the light’s gone from his eyes. all you see there is a deep, dark, unrelenting hunger.

“i sure as well will.”

[spence-whore]

Like I’ll See You Later

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Request: OMG A SPENCER FIC BASED OFF THIS SONG

A/N i apologize for getting this out so much later than what i said it would be posted! I got really down after losing the edit then lost motivation to write. I have spent all day trying to rewrite this because i wanted to actually be able to put out something i loved, like that edit, instead of half assing something then getting it posted. On another note though, two quick things before you read this. One, I did not set this up like I did the dress inspired imagine. I felt like the way the song is written, it wouldn’t make sense to try and tie the lyrics into the story. You will be able to tell that this is heavily inspired by the song though:) last thing, i went on the feminine route in this due to the dress lyric. I am still using they/them pronouns but yeah! I hope you guys are doing good and that you enjoy<3 reminder as well, I’m shit at editing this stuff lol so overlook it like usual

Trigger warning: mentions of men hitting on y/n and sexual tension big time

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Spencer knew that something he was going to have to deal with whenever he started dating you was seeing people hit on you. He got to witness it all of the time while you two were just friends. Part of him doesn’t hate it though because he knows that he can trust you and knows that at the end of the night, you come home with him.

Tonight was going to be one of those nights.

Before you had even left the house, Spencer was practically drooling over you.

You were wearing a short, black dress. You had your hair done and were wearing makeup. The second you turned the corner to walk to the front door, Spencer’s mouth just dropped.

“Might wanna close your mouth there, bub. You might catch flies.” You said, winking at him, teasing him.

“Holy shhiiiiiiiitttttt.” Spencer said walking towards you and pulled you to him. He had a tight grip on your waist, just staring at you. He moved the hand that was on your waist, to your hand. He raised your arm and gently spun you, so he could look at you. “You wanna just stay here? I can send Courtney a quick text telling them you weren’t feeling well. I would rather just stay here honestly and maybe just spend some time in the bedroom.”

You laughed really loudly and shook your head at the man. “I promised Erin and Alex that we would come celebrate with the crew tonight. I might take you up on that offer though, once we come home.”

All of the crew had been working on a really big project for the last few months and finally finished it. Whenever the idea of celebrating got mentioned, both Erin and Alex had messaged you, inviting you along. You worked at a different office but whenever you had the chance, you were visiting the crew. Everyone at the office loved you, so they were begging you to come.

You were stood in front of Spencer once he finished spinning you, just giggling and shaking your head. “We don’t have to stay late, the second you’re ready to come home, you can come and let me know.” You suggested, looking at Spencer with raised eyebrows and a smile on your face.

“Absollllutely dude.” Spencer said getting a big goofy grin on his face.

The two of you headed out of your house and headed to the restaurant. Spencer was about to go crazy, just sitting in the car with you. Looking at you, he felt like he was staring at a beautiful statue you would see in a museum.

Whenever you finally arrived at the restaurant, you met some of the crew outside. Courtney and Shayne were stood off to the side talking till Courtney saw you. “Woooah, Spencer, I might have to steal your partner from you. You look hot, Y/N!”

You just giggled and shook your head, “Do you see yourself, dude? You look amazing like always.”

The entire group stood outside, talking for a few minutes before you all headed in. While walking in, Spencer caught multiple different guys looking you up and down. He walked up right behind you and wrapped his arm around your waist. Whenever he glanced back at the men, he wanted to laugh because they looked like their hearts had just broke.

“Whatcha doing love?” You asked Spencer, turning your head to look at the man behind you.

“Just making sure some people know that I’m yours.” Spencer whispered in your ear then kissed your cheek.

You just laughed and shook your head at Spencer.

All of you sat down at a big table and ordered your food. Everyone was in their own little conversations, rambling about random things like they were going to do during the weekend. A few minutes passed by and Angela said she was going to the restroom and asked if any of the women around her wanted to follow. You stood to follow her alongside Courtney and Kiana. While the four of you were walking away from the table, you had not even made it four steps before a guy stopped you. He almost ran into you and backed up very quickly, checking you out.

“I’m so sorry. Could I possibly buy you a drink as an apology?” The stranger asks, with hope written all over his face.

You just awkwardly laughed and shook your head no. “It’s all good! Accidents happen. I’m gonna pass on the drink though. I’m here with my partner and some friends.”

You quickly walked around the guy and kept walking towards the bathroom.

Back at the table, Spencer and Amanda were watching the situation go down. The guy eventually walked past their table and was mumbling about how you were rude.

Spencer just laughed and shook his head at the man. Amanda looked at Spencer in amusement.

“I love that you don’t let stuff like that bother you.” Spencer hears from Amanda. Spencer looked over at her and he just smiled and shook his head again.

“It doesn’t bother me because I’m confident in the fact they want me and only me at the end of the night.” Spencer says while picking around at his food.

“I can tell you one thing,” Amanda says taking a pause to swallow her drink. “Anyone that thinks they would be lucky enough to take Y/N is an idiot. They literally look at you like you have placed each individual star in the sky, just for them.”

“I would do absolutely anything and everything for them. I would give them the moon, if I could.” Spencer says in a soft voice, looking down because he doesn’t show that side of him very often to his coworkers.

Amanda got a big grin on her face because she realized Y/N had gotten back in time to hear him say that.

“And I would give you the sun if I could.” Spencer heard you say and felt you kiss his cheek.

Amanda went back to talking to Vida and Erin while you continued talking to Courtney and Kiana about the new show you had started watching.

You felt like holes were burning in the side of your head, so you turned your head to look at Spencer and he was just staring at you with a smile on his face.

“You’re just a smiley boy tonight.” You whisper and elbow his side softly.

Spencer giggled and grabbed your hand. “How could I not be whenever I have you beside me? Just seeing you turning other people down because you want me is hot.”

You laughed really loud and leaned back in your seat. “So, me being a loyal partner is hot?”

Spencer just looked at you annoyed. “How about you learn to take a compliment?”

You frowned then shook your head, trying to not laugh.

Spencer couldn’t really keep his eyes off of you though because he just wanted to go home and to spend some time with you. The way you looked in your dress was driving him absolutely inside. So, he thought, if you got to psychologically torture him, he’s going to do it right back. You scooted back up, to the table, to continue your conversation with others and to eat. He slid his hand under the table and rested it on your thigh. You shot a look over at him and he was acting like everything was normal, looking over at everyone else. He didn’t stop there though. He started lightly brushing his thumb on your thigh, hitting the bottom of your dress in your process. He kept this big smirk on his face the entire time.

You learned over towards him, “What’re you up to pretty boy?”

Spencer turned his head towards you and leaned towards your ear. “I don’t know why but something about the way others look at you really makes me want to just take you right here and right now.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, so you tried coughing to play it off.

The rest of the night, Spencer was driving you insane. Anytime anyone walked by and looked at you, he would take it one step further. He always made sure no one could see what he was doing though. At one point, he had your dress brushed up, showing off a little too much of your thigh under the table. You got lucky though because someone spoke up about being ready to go home. Everyone started to comment on leaving, so you set up quickly, pushing your dress down.

“Yeah, I’m getting pretty tired too. Spence, you ready to head out?” You asked, ready to just run out of the restaurant and back to Spencer’s car.

Spencer nodded his head and slowly pushed back from the table. The two of you said your goodbyes and made it out the door, slowly with others following.

“It was so good to see you! You need to stop by the office soon!” Alex said, pulling you into a quick hug with a big smile on his face.

“Of course, I would love to!” You said back and waved at Erin.

You and Spencer finally split from the group, walking back to his car. You were trying to act unphased but Spencer knew you wanted to break into a sprint back to his car.

“What’s wrong Y/N?” You hear Spencer ask softly.

“Nothing.” You comment back, shrugging your shoulders.

“That’s funny because I think we both know whenever we get home, I’ll be seeing that dress on the floor.”

[waywardcrow]

Timeless.

Chapter IV.

Summary: 1943. 1975. 2024. Three different decades, three different lives, three different times your life and Bucky's interwined; he lost you twice, will he do it again?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader.

TW: It can change each chapter but themes of Bucky as soldier and as the Winter Soldier in general, flashbacks and dreams in italics like this, lots of feels, reader's being a little anxious, some stalking lol, a brief sex scene (p in v), very bad written smut, implied domestic violence (not from Bucky), murder mentioned, past lives, past 40'sreader is mentioned to be named Beth but that changes for 2024 version of her so I nicknamed her little bird for Bucky, Ace for everybody else, this will be a +18 story so minors dni.

Disclaimer: Please remember english is not my first language so if I make a mistake or forget something let me know.

Pictures from pinterest and graphic and dividers by the amazing @ firefly-graphics so all credits to the creators.

Previous chapter <;<<

You were fired, that wasn’t a surprise.

Mia Alexander didn’t sue you for every penny you had, that was shocking.

But getting a call from Pepper Potts herself, that was the real main event of your whole life.

She asked you to go and pay her a visit at her office in the Avengers tower, like if that didn’t send you in a spiral of bliss and terror, what will you wear? What could a woman like her want to talk with someone like you? Even if Sergeant Barnes –Bucky, you reminded yourself- told her what had happened in the gala, she might be mad at you.

Your head begun to think in the possibilities all the way there, considering that this was the reason why Mia didn’t sued you, maybe Pepper Potts would do it.

When you finally arrived to the tower your stomach was in knots, not even your lucky outfit made you feel better but like every other day in your life you sucked it up and walked to the front desk.

“Hi, I’m here to see Miss Potts?” you said, making it sound more like a question and the receptionist stared at your vintage midi skirt and blouse like he understood your hesitation. You offered him a smile before telling him your name so he looked for it in the screen in front of him and gave you a visitant pass.

“Third floor, follow the hall, last door in your right” he said and then went back to his screen.

“Oh, ok, thanks” your neck was hot with embarrassment when you reached the elevators and just became more evident when you got in and someone else did too.

“Good morning, third floor too?” Scott Lang, THE Scott Lang, asked you and you could only nod like an idiot. He did a double take on your face and smiled “hey, I know you; you are the girl who throws champagne at evil bosses.”

You were turning purple, it was a sure thing.

“What?” it was all you said.

“Yeah, the other night you did an incredible stunt, Sam told us everything” so Captain America knew too, great. Scott must saw something in your expression because his changed “is ok, seriously, when we hear what she did no one blamed you for it, I was sure Hope was about to kick her ass and don’t let me start with Yelena” your head was spinning “I think it was brave and more subtle than ruining your boss company and driving a car to his pool”

That earned a strangled laugh from you.

“Are you going to see Miss Potts too, Mr. Lang?” you asked when the elevator doors opened again and you walked with him.

“Actually I’m going to see Maria Hill but I’ll see you later” he smiled at you with such honesty that you relaxed for the first time in all day, making your way to your destiny you noticed the front desk for Miss Potts assistant was empty and you were just on time which was as good as being late.

Without not knowing what to do, you knocked at her door.

“Come in”.

Taking a deep breath, you did it squaring your shoulders and trying to tell yourself everything would be fine.

“Good morning, Miss Potts, I hope is ok I called, there was no one and-“

“It’s completely fine” she said gesturing for you to sit in front of her and went to address your formally even if contradicted her next words “Please call me Pepper, everyone does.

There was something about her, a professionalism that was inspiring but also made her approachable and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Only if you call me by my first name too”

“It’s what you like to be called? Because Sam told me about your friend calling you Ace when he went with Sergeant Barnes to the hospital, I think it fits you” at her words it was impossible not to blush again; first of all because of the mention of Bucky, the recurrent thought of your head the last days and then because of the nickname Harper gave you.

“I mean, yeah, my friends call me that” it was an exaggeration, you only had one friend.

“Maybe we should stick to it, between me and you Pepper is not even my name but I think is perfect for me” there was something like nostalgia in her eyes but she didn’t let you think too much about it “and I like that my employees feel comfortable when we talk.”

“Excuse me, what?” it was really embarrassing how you couldn’t form a decent sentence in front of her.

“I would like you to be my assistant, Ace” she said and then your life really changed.

Bucky still could tasted you, the other you, the one who reincarnated and was born in a rich Italian family in 1950, the one that somehow found him when he was The Winter Soldier.

He wasn’t supposed to fuck you in your fiancée’s car, well ex fiancée, you couldn’t marry a dead asshole. His mind couldn’t know why he needed you that bad but his body did, Bucky was sure it was the conditioning what made him be such a caveman with you but the truth was, you were his mirror back then.

You wanted him since Lucas bragged about his connections to Hydra and how they lend him their best asset to protect the arsenal his father’s company will provided for them. Your whole attention was in the silent assassin who looked at you like you were everything he could ever want.

Lucas wasn’t great with you, his little bird, that’s why he snapped his neck and took you away, sometimes his nightmares will let him breath and remember you surrounding him, riding his cock, high in pleasure, telling him that you loved him before you both were found and he was dragged back to Hell.

As a small blessing, he didn’t remembered that while dreaming, Bucky was too lost on you, in the salty taste of your skin against his tongue when he traced the valley of your naked breasts with it.

“Give me one more, little bird” he ordered, thrusting in and out of you with an incredible skill considering the small space “drench my cock again.”

His english was perfect with you, no sign of hesitation, not remembering he wasn’t supposed to speak it so naturally when it wasn’t necessary; the Brooklyn accent showing up without effort.

“I- I can’t” you sobbed, drunk on him, your body asking for more.

“You will” his metal hand let go your neck to play with your clit, the cold metal sending you to your climax once again, taking him with you.

The softness of your skin against his was the last thing he remembered before waking up.

Harper called you when you got back home and screamed when you tell her the news; she made a joke about coming to work with you so she could see Sam Wilson every day, making you feel better. Since you convinced your parents go and have the retirement they deserved, Harper was the only one you had and she was more than what you deserved but sometimes you wished for more, for someone to go home to.

Like a fool, your mind went to Sergeant Barnes; you needed to thank him for what he did for you.

If not for him, you would have be ruined but how could someone put that in a thank you card?

Maybe you could bake something for him.

Bucky likes apple pie.

The thought came out of nowhere with an intense hint of pain between your eyebrows, what was that?

Maybe a nap would help, your new job waited for you and this was the chance you dreamed of, ruining it wasn’t an option.

When Bucky went to check on you that night, you were already sleeping in your couch, making very difficult for him to let you there. Of course he could break in and carry you to your room without waking you up but it would make you feel unsafe.

It was hard for him to go back to a civilian life, or the closest he could have, his actions needed to be careful, especially around you. It was also torture he remembered almost everything and you nothing at all, that he couldn’t tell you about that night on your porch in 1943 or your breakfast with him, Steve and the Howlies when your unit was sent to Europe and destiny brought you both together again, he couldn't tell you about that time in Italy.

Bucky wanted you to know everything but you will never believe him, in the best case you'd believe it was a joke or a proof of him losing his mind but you could also believe him dangerous –which he was- and get away from him where Bucky would not be able protect you.

Sited there in your fire escape, he started to memorize every part of you he could see through the darkness, if that was all he could have from you, he would make it be enough.

Tag list: @cjand10 @bunnyforhim @cookingdancingchick

Next chapter >>>

Hello lovelies! Sorry for bringing this short chapter, I tried to start going through their past lives but witout giving so much details so this don't gets very confusing, if it still is please tell me so I can work on it, what de you think? I'll love to read about it in the comments!

Love, Lily.

[niki-phoria]

pairing: chishiya x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: angst word count: 821

warnings: blood, death, canon-typical violence, death

includes: possibly ooc chishiya, kinda hurt no comfort ?? very angsty lol, ambiguous ending

summary: after a grueling battle with the king of spades, you search for chishiya in your final moments

and if you go, i wanna go with you / and if you die, i wanna die with you

carnage.

the only thing you can see is carnage. blood seeps into the asphalt around you. you’re not sure if it’s yours. 

the fabric of your t-shirt is stuck to your skin. each shaky breath you take is shallow as you force the air into your lungs. your hands tremble as you lift them up towards the sky. deep red streaks are embedded into your flesh. your vision is blurry. you feel disoriented. everything hurts. 

“chishiya,” you whisper. his name leaves your lips like a prayer. squinting at the sky, you almost confuse the sun for his warmth. the light is far more comforting than the hard ground below. 

“y/n?” someone asks from beside you. her voice is shaky. she sounds familiar. kuina. “are you okay?”

“chishiya,” you repeat. “i need to find him.” squeezing your eyes shut, you push yourself to sit up. your head aches. you’re not sure how far you’re able to move. the world spins for a second before everything pauses for a second. 

you take the opportunity to glance around. the alleyway has a fresh coating of red splattered across the walls. stray bullet holes leave tiny windows into the nearby buildings. your skin is coated in a heavy layer of filth and grime. 

every muscle in your body tenses as you push yourself even farther. in a blur, you’re finally standing. you lean against the wall for support, shuffling your feet against the ground as you slowly begin to move. 

there’s even more wreckage outside of the alleyway. debris litters the earth below. blood and gore decorate your surroundings. bile rises in your throat at the sight, but you continue pushing yourself to move regardless. i can afford to be selfish just this once, you reason. if i’m going to die, i might as well die with my lover.

retracing your steps is easier than you had expected. you stumble past aguni, paying no mind to the blank look in his eyes as he stares up at the sun. there are a million things he could be looking for. you don’t care about any of them. not anymore.

you grunt when you lose your balance once again, tripping over your own feet. you tumble into a nearby car; your body slams into the side of the vehicle. a part of you worries about setting off the alarm but it is quickly squandered by the realization that the owner is likely dead. at least there’s no one left to be annoyed by the repetitive noise.

“y/n?” he breaks the silence with a breathless whisper. he looks more shocked than you do. tears sting in your eyes. 

you leave a trail of blood in your wake as you slide against the side of the cool metal. you maneuver yourself around to the other edge of the car before abruptly stopping. time freezes.

you blink once. then again. a third time. you rack your brain in an attempt to make sense of the sight of the man before you. chishiya. 

“‘shiya.” you let yourself collapse onto the ground beside him. your knees buckle under the weight of relief - or maybe the strain from moving. you’re not sure anymore.

chishiya is quick to grab onto you, letting you lean your aching body against his. your blood seeps into the white fabric of his jacket. his fingers grip your arms before moving upwards to support your face. 

chishiya’s hand slips away from your face to instead press against your side. you hiss at the pressure, coiling into yourself. “i’m sorry,” he whispers. you already know that he is. that he’d take away your pain if he could. that he wishes he could do more. 

you look at him through blurry vision. tears roll down your cheeks in waves. his touch is gentle as he wipes them away.

“y/n,” he repeats. you can feel his gaze all over you - scanning your body for the worst injury. the one he should treat first. bad habits die hard, you suppose. 

you bury your face into the crook of his neck. chishiya has let up on the pressure. instead, his arms rest gingerly around your waist, keeping you wrapped comfortably in his hold. you’re grateful. 

“i love you.” your words slur together. you’re sure they’re nearly inaudible as you mumble them against his skin. 

“i love you too,” chishiya whispers. each syllable is clear as it leaves his lips but you know him well enough to recognize the small waver that stings at the end of each word. you know him well enough to know his grip around your body is tight for a reason. you know him well enough to know that the tears staining your cheeks are not only your own. 

you can hear fireworks in the distance. closing your eyes, you allow darkness to surround you. you imagine the beautiful hues of colour decorating the sky as the world finally fades away.

[hannyoontify]

seventeen '96 line and their love languages

warnings | brief mentions of food

notes | based on pure speculation and my guesses by reading their “vibes”. i have a feeling it might be a little diff since the way that they treat their members is probably gonna be different from the way they would treat their s/o. listed from greatest to least (imo) and feel free to drop an ask abt ur opinions i would love to have a discourse abt sebongs’ diff love languages lol 95 line | 96 line | 97 line | maknae line

junhui : acts of service, physical touch (special mention: words of affirmation)

i struggled a bit with junhui bc he’s.. wen junhui. but i narrowed it down to acts of service bc he loves doing things for the members, cooking hotpot for others during in the soop and specifically not adding peanuts bc he knows vernon’s allergic and him wanting to know and experience the diff things the members liked doing during in the soop. i also saw a short compilation where he placed a hand on the wall whenever a member was spinning just in case they hit their head. js super small things 🥹 i saw a clip of junhui (idk the context of the video) but he was on a skywalk with others and he was jumping but he noticed that a co-star was afraid of heights so he immediately stopped and went over to make sure that they were okay and js my sweet sweet baby 🥹 he always puts others before himself and i think regardless of his love language that’s js the kind of person he is OH LIKE HOW PRE DEBUT JUN MADE BREAKFAST FOR MEMBERS BEFORE GOING TO SCHOOL AS HIS WAY OF SHOWING THAT HE CARES FOR THEM BC OF THE LANGUAGE BARRIER MY BABYYYY but yeah like if you wear glasses and you fall asleep with them on, he’ll silently take them off and put them down at your bedside table so they wouldn’t break or smudge bc he knows js how much you hate it when your glasses get smudged. totally the type to notice the smallest details about you and your preferences and act on it 

junhui just… likes to cuddle what else can i say i think he’s also one of those members who always has his chin tucked on another member’s shoulder. i don’t think he’s the type to initiate physical touch, but if the other person initiates, he’s more than happy to cuddle or have an arm around them. with a romantic partner, i think junhui would be the type to appreciate the smaller, unspoken touches between him and his partner. light hand squeezes under the dinner table, his arm wrapped around your shoulders protectively as he introduces you to his friends and coworkers, light touches on your lower back/waist when he’s passing by you, interlocking pinkies in crowded areas. he can get fidgety if you guys cuddle in the same position for a prolonged period of time so make sure to let him be little spoon sometimes </3

hoshi : quality time, physical touch (special mention: gifts)

okay i think this is a hot take but i think hoshi’s top love language (both giving and receiving) is quality time. not to like project but i’m also an infp and my top love language is quality time and i can js see that in hoshi. his favorite days are when you pick him up after work and the two of you go on long drives late into the night, accompanied by nothing but the bright stars and the low hum of your car’s engine as his hand is intertwined with yours. you just drive, listening to hoshi’s little stories and anecdotes about what happened during the day. the topics could range from what his coffee tasted like that day to how another member made him upset and you would just sit there, listening to him talk. he liked it when it was js the two of you, his hand in yours and being in the same space as you. he loved the way you glanced over at him whenever you could, flashing him that lovely smile of yours and patting his hand whenever he got particularly frustrated. he wants to be with you at all times, even if you aren’t particularly doing anything together. he js likes breathing the same air as you

this kinda correlates with quality time BUT LET HIM HOLD YOUR HAND. PLEASE. he feels so much more at ease if your hand is in his and he js wants to feel your presence right like he likes being in the same room as you but he would like it even more if he was attached to your hip so he can hold you and kiss you whenever he wants yk? def kind of like a forehead and kisses kind of guy ofc he loves your lips but smth about kissing your forehead makes him feel all soft and fuzzy inside (he mentioned last night about his kiss transmitting to your brain faster through your forehead than your lips since it’s closer to your brain or smth but you don’t rlly remember since that was at 2 in the morning) surprise back hugs and resting his chin on your shoulder. you’re the only person he allows to squeeze his cheeks and call him ‘adorable’ and he likes it. he likes being adored by you, he likes having you in his personal space because when it comes to you, he doesn’t have any 

special mention: GIFTS!!! i mostly wanted to write this part bc of that iconic clip of hoshi falling flat to his face after receiving a pair of jeans that he wanted/were expensive so he paused the music during the rehearsal and was thanking everyone LMAO yeah that’s infp’s, they get super touched by the smallest gestures so gift giving is one sure way of showing him how much you appreciate and love him. 

wonwoo : words of affirmation, quality time

wonwoo my lovely boy :((((( he’s a bit more quiet so when you first started dating, he wasn’t very vocal about his affections and feelings but he’s worked on it and grown a lot since then. not the type to declare his love every 2 minutes but like the small “i’m proud of you” with a warm smile or a “good job” “you did amazing” like he js knows what to say to make you feel better. he’s a smart person and he makes the right word choices to comfort you and make you feel loved even without those 3 words. blushes whenever you compliment him and hides his face in his hands. gets so shy when you compliment him bc you???? the most wonderful human in the universe thinks he’s?????? the best thing to happen to you??????? pls keep telling him that bc he loves hearing from you how much you love him and how much he means to you bc it really helps him when he’s feeling down (he even has a separate album on his camera roll of js screenshots of your texts and words of encouragement specifically for rougher rehearsals/days)

quality time!! i think we kinda saw this coming, he likes sitting on the couch with you, playing super smash bros and he loves the way you bounce up and down in your seat whenever the game gets intense or you get excited. when they’re more complex pc games, he’s never admitted it out loud, but he likes it when you sit next to him at his desk, watching over his shoulder. “get ‘em get em right there- OOOO THAT WAS SO CLOSE BABE” you always ask him if you’re annoying him during his games but absolutely the fuck not bc he loves hearing you comment and he loves it even more when you give him a victory kiss after a game. it was js a quick peck on the cheek regardless of whether or not he won bc he’ll “always be a winner in [your] eyes” also liked it when you comforted him whenever he lost and cursed out his opponents bc although he himself never does it, it feels nice to hear you call 37 year old men on the internet “prissy dickwads who still wet the bed and cry for their mommies”. has he ever told you that he loves you?

woozi : acts of service, physical touch

jihoon is a man of a lot of unspoken words and feelings. not a big fan of physical touch or talking, so he resorts to relying on his actions to relay his feelings. i think we all know what i’m about to say; his giving love language is song writing which basically is a combination of acts of service and gift giving. his second ever ‘i love you’ was through a song (he thought the first one should be said out loud since it’s a pretty big deal) but he just loves you and cares for you sososososososo much but why js say them in the same ol’ tone in the same ol’ way when he can say that over and over again in hundreds of different ways accompanied by thousands of different sweet melodies? yeah and bc you’re a big music nerd too, he feels appreciated how you always listen attentively at least twice, once for the music and a second time for the lyrics. and then the praise and compliments that came flooding in afterwards is almost as immeasurable as his love for you. he sometimes wonders how you never run out of compliments to say but he loves it. and besides songs, woozi loves to take care of you. making sure you’re fully tucked into bed before he turns off the lights, making sure to stock up on oatmeal raisin cookies in his studio because he knows you love them (despite seungkwan’s absolute hatred for them and how ‘deceiving’ they are), folding your laundry for you when you’re busy, and occasional breakfasts in bed 🥹

OKAY. HEAR ME OUT. he doesn’t like physical touch in general but you (and dokyeom) are the only exceptions. he js kinda melts and knows he’s safe when he’s in your arms. not really one to initiate skinship but will NEVER decline if you offer cuddles bc.. they’re cuddles. from you. why would he say no? he likes it when you’re on his couch in his universe factory and js kinda hold him during his breaks in between long work periods. it helps him de-stress and momentarily forget about all the new chord progressions, rhythms, and lyrics he’d been working on the for the past 3 hours. he melts under your touch when you run your hands through his hair, his head in your lap and staring up at the ceiling (aka stealing glimpses of your face whenever he can) ofc there are days where he wants to be alone and you respect that, which he’s thankful for. likes head pats pls give him lots of head pats and your occasional surprise kiss on the cheek will have that man BLUSHINGGGGG (pls keep doing it he loves it)

reblogs and feedback are always appreciated ^-^

[ghostie-in-wonderland]

Rides I think the Obey Me! Characters would dislike

Tw: motion sickness is mentioned

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Mammon: Manta at Sea World Orlando

I think his voice box would be definitely strained afterwards from screaming. Definitely don’t think he’d enjoy the whole like laying parallel to the ground part. He seems like the friend who would pretend to not be scared of a ride, while actually being terrified and at the end of the day has no voice from how loud he was screaming. 

Lucifer: Tower of Terror 

I can’t explain it, but he gives me the vibes of someone who has definitely freaked out about getting trapped in an elevator, but he plays it off because of his pride so he would never let anyone know that the ride spooks him. He’s also a 1000% someone who’d go on the People-mover all day, which is definitely a mood sometimes. 

Leviathan: Thunderbolt at Kennywood

It legit causes someone to pretty much sit on someone else’s lap. I think he’d be freaked out by that. If he rode it with the MC, instant nosebleed. I think he’d prefer to play the games or do rides where he’s not sitting directly against someone. 

Asmodeus: A Bug’s Life at Disney World 

The seats make it feel like bugs crawl on you. I think he’d hate that. Plus, you watch like a little Bug’s Life performance thing and it’s freaky (I also hated this attraction as a kid). 

Satan: It’s a Small World at Disney 

Somehow, he would get stuck in there. The ride would then be closed for the next five years because of how angry he’d get about the song. It would be entertaining though for MC if they’re chaotic. 

Beelzebub: Mission: Space at Disney World 

This ride is motion sickness devildom (lol see what I did there). He gives the vibes of the family member who has to sit in the front seat or next to a window because he gets really bad motion sickness and feels guilty the entire time. 

Belphegor: Black Widow at Kennywood 

I don’t think he’d vibe with the swinging and the spinning. I think he’d get really dizzy and annoyed by it. Especially because it’s longer than it needs to be. He also seems like the type to get headaches from rides that spin too much. 

Diavolo: Raptor at Cedar Point

This man is beefy. Truly I don’t think he’d like rides that have over the shoulder harnesses because they squish him. I think if you asked though, he’d still go with you on any rides because you asked. Also, I feel like if you’re plus size/chubby and nervous about fitting on a ride, he would 1000% make it seem like he was the problem if you don’t fit on the ride. He is a 100/10 character to go to a theme park with. 

Barbatos: Exterminator at Kennywood 

This is the entire reason I thought of this idea. I love this ride, but Exterminator with it’s OG theming (pre-making an express lane when it had good theming) would have freaked Barbatos out because it’s all about rats taking over a city. Like the whole ride is rat themed and you’re in a car that looks like a rat “trying” to escape exterminators. 

Simeon: Pipeline at Sea World Orlando

I think he’d dislike the whole standing while on a rollercoaster. I think he’d just dislike Sea World in general because of the ethical issues with it. I feel like his least favorite part would be getting off the ride and his legs being all shaky because of it. 

Luke: Seven Dwarfs Mine Train at Disney World 

I think it would mostly be the jokes the brothers would make at his expense in line. 

Solomon: Invertigo at King’s Island 

I think he’d hate the possibility of going backwards on a rollercoaster. I think he’d also hate rides like the Music Express at Kennywood or Matterhorn at Cedar Point because it only goes in a circle. 

Mephisto: All of them

He just gives those vibes. I’m sorry he just does to me. I feel like he would be one of those people who are there for the vibes, probably go on a couple of the chiller rides like the Merry-Go-Rounds or join Lucifer on the People Mover (which would be amusing to watch). 

Thirteen: None 

A 10/10 character to go to a theme park with if you want a ride buddy, she’ll go on everything with you. 

[roycevelvet]

Collision of fate

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x reader Warnings: none Notes: idk what this is or where this is going, enjoy the ride. And I'm sorry, as usual, not proof-read, ain't nobody got time for that. Also having editing issues again, don’t know what i’m doing wrong lol

Summary: A fender-bender with a tour bus sparks frustration, but quickly turns it into a sweet connection with smiles and the promise of new beginnings.

The guys were in the middle of their European tour, driving through the countryside of a small European town. As their tour bus rumbled along the roads of a small village, the sun hung low in the sky, painting the countryside with a warm glow. However, amidst the peaceful scenery, danger was just around the corner.

You on the other hand were driving quite aggressively, frustration simmering inside you. It was another day colored by your boyfriend's insensitive actions, leaving you seething with irritation. Desperate to shake off the frustration, you cranked up the volume of the music, the powerful chords of some random 80s rock song on the radio reverberating through your speakers. With each verse, you poured your heart into the lyrics, as an escape from your troubles. But just as you began to find some solace in the music, disaster struck.

As the spinning car finally stopped, the huge tour bus screeched to a halt, the sound of the collision snapped Noah out of his thoughts.

In a blur of shock and anger, you approached the group of men emerging from the bus. Your voice ringing out outrage. "What in the world were you thinking?" you yelled in your native language, your words sharp and pointed. “Did you never learn how to drive?!"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down there" Matt interjected, stepping forward with his hands in defeat, trying to keep this a civil conversation. "We're really sorry about what happened. It was an accident.”

"Accident? You call this an accident?" you shot back, switching to English, your voice rising with every word. "You nearly killed me!"

“It was an honest miscalculation, I swear," Matt insisted, "Let's just try to sort this out calmly, okay?"

But your anger was relentless, fueled by adrenaline and the shock of the near miss. "Calm? You want me to be calm?" you snorted. “How can I be calm when you almost turned me into a statistic?"

Matt exchanged a helpless glance with the crew, unsure of how to calm things down. Your anger was clear to everyone. Noah watched quietly as you let out your frustration, speaking, yelling actually, passionately in your European accent. Despite being outnumbered and seemingly outmatched, you stood your ground, and Noah couldn’t help but feel impressed. There was something undeniably captivating about the fire in your eyes, the strength in your voice as you held them to account.

“Guys, what do we do?" Someone whispered, Noah couldn’t quite hear who because of the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. 

"We apologize, again" Noah interjected, stepping forward to address you directly. "I'm truly sorry for what happened. It was never our intention to cause harm. We are not familiair with these roads and our bus driver miscalculated the small road.”

Your gaze softened slightly at his words, though the fire in your eyes still burned bright. "An apology won't fix my car though” you snapped back.

"I understand" Noah replied genuinely, "We'll do whatever we can to make it right. Please, let us help."

As apologies were exchanged and tensions started to calm, Noah felt drawn to you. Despite the chaos, he couldn't help but notice the way your brown hair fell in loose waves around your shoulders, catching the sunlight. Your hazel eyes holding a fierce determination. And your sun-kissed skin that seemed to glow in the fading light, adding more to your captivating aura.

You stood there in your adorable sunflower dress, defiant yet somehow ethereal, and Noah couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter was more than mere coincidence. There was something about you that tugged at his heartstrings.

And so, amidst this unfortunate meeting, a conversation blossomed. Noah found himself hanging on your every word, captivated by your beauty and undeniable charisma as you finalized the insurance paperwork. Meanwhile, you couldn't help but feel at ease in Noah's presence, he was the one to calm you down in the first please. His calm demeanor and genuine concern put you at ease, and you couldn't deny finding him kind of … cute?

Noah discreetly glanced at the paperwork in his hand, subtly searching for your name. You caught him in the act and offered him a playful smirk. "What? Can’t find my name?” you teased, your voice tinged with amusement.

He chuckled at being caught. He couldn't help but find your thick accent cute when you spoke in English, adding a charming touch to your already captivating presence.

"Ah, busted" he admitted with a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, I suppose I'll have to rely on you to fill in the blank."

You flashed a knowing smile and replied, "Y/N. And you are?"

Noah extended his hand with a warm smile. "I'm Noah, and these are ...” He introduced each member of the band and the crew present in turn, all wearing the same apologetic expression.

You waited together for the towing service to arrive and collect your car, the initial tension was nowhere to be found. Everyone present engaged in small talk, trying to lighten the mood and make amends for the accident.

As a gesture of apology, Noah leaned in and said, "We really feel terrible about what happened. Can we at least make it a bit better if we invite you to our concert tomorrow night?"

You couldn't help but smile at the offer, touched by their sincerity. "I'd like that," you replied, feeling a sense of warmth in your chest at the unexpected invitation.

PART TWO