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norrisidous · 1 month ago

Note

I had this as a dream and I woke up all grumpy because I wish it was real 😭😭😭

Basically, reader is a reserve driver for Mclaren but also in f1 Academy, and she and Lando have always been super close. One day, she has to race instead of Oscar, and she ends up leading the race. However, near the end she asks the team to swap with lando (who she kept within DRS to help him out) because she knew he could use the points more than her since she's not an official f1 racer. Lando refuses, and reader wins her very first race. Lando is overwhelmed by how much he loves her and he just marches up to her and pulls her in from her waist to kiss her (could be private or public) and they're both just so proud of each other and so down bad 🥹🥹🥹

In the Slipstream

summary: where a surprise victory, a selfless offer, and a kiss at the finish line—some moments change everything, on and off the track. warnings: none

You never really expected to race in Formula 1—not yet, anyway.

Being McLaren’s reserve driver was already a dream you clutched tightly, and your time in the F1 Academy was sharpening your edge, day by day. You were grinding for the future, for the chance that maybe, if the stars aligned, you’d get that one golden shot. Still, you didn’t expect it to arrive on a cool spring weekend in Imola.

Oscar had come down with a stomach virus—something violent and sudden. When the team principal tapped your shoulder that morning, the pit lane buzzing behind him, you felt your stomach flip in sync with the revving engines.

“You’re up.”

You didn’t even have time to be nervous. It was all a blur—briefings, simulator data, seat fitting, strategy talk, and a surprising amount of people suddenly treating you not like the F1 Academy kid, but like McLaren’s actual second driver.

And then there was Lando.

He was always your rock. From the earliest days at the McLaren simulator to now, he was the constant thread in the chaos. He teased you like an older brother when you first joined, but somewhere along the line, it shifted. Quiet moments in the motorhome, texts that lingered, eyes that held yours just a little too long. The bond between you deepened—unspoken, but undeniable.

As you stood side by side before the race, helmet in hand, Lando bumped his shoulder against yours.

“Nervous?”

You smiled, adjusting your gloves. “Terrified.”

He grinned, green eyes twinkling. “Good. That means you’ll be sharp.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spread like fire.

The race began in a flash.

Lights out. Your start was electric. Years of F1 Academy training and sim practice paid off instantly. Clean overtakes. Smart tire management. You quickly moved through the midfield, shock and awe blooming around you like wildfire.

And then… you were leading.

Not by much—but enough to see the papaya blur of Lando’s car in your mirrors, stuck tightly in your DRS range. You’d coordinated perfectly without speaking, both of you playing the strategy game like chess masters. You gave him DRS when he needed it, pulled when it counted, and he protected your tail like a guardian.

But you knew what was at stake.

You weren’t supposed to be here—not permanently. This race didn’t count toward a championship for you. For Lando, it could mean everything. A podium. A shot at the title. Or even just the points to prove himself in a field that always underestimated him.

So with ten laps to go, your voice broke over the radio, steady but full of emotion.

“Tell Lando… he can take the win. I’ll open the door in sector two.”

There was silence. Then the engineer’s voice returned, startled. “Say again?”

“I want him to take it. I’ll back off.”

More silence.

Then a voice crackled in—his voice.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando snapped. “You earned this. I’m not taking it.”

Your throat tightened. “Lan—”

“No. You’re not giving it away. Not to me. Not to anyone. Finish this.”

You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes as the turns blurred.

Lap after lap, he stayed on your tail—but didn’t challenge. Not once. Just close enough to show he was there. That he believed in you.

You crossed the checkered flag, engine screaming, heart slamming, and your name ringing through the paddock for the first time in F1 victory.

Race winner: (Y/N), McLaren.

You pulled into the pit lane, overwhelmed, hands shaking. The team was screaming over the radio, cheering like mad. You climbed out of the car and tugged your helmet off, letting the cool air hit your sweat-damp hair.

And then—he was there.

Lando walked straight toward you with purpose, jaw tight, eyes wild. No words. Just energy.

Before you could say a thing, he reached for you, hands gripping your waist, and pulled you flush against him.

Then he kissed you.

Hard, desperate, and real.

The paddock didn’t exist. The cameras didn’t matter. All you felt was him. His hands. His breath. The quake of his chest against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still shut.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” he whispered. “And I’m so in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop crying. The win, the adrenaline, the months of quiet longing—it all came crashing down in that single moment.

You held his face gently, brushing a thumb over the smear of sweat at his temple.

“I love you too,” you said softly, voice cracking. “I wanted you to win because I love you.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“I wanted you to win. Because you deserve the world.”

The press didn’t let it go.

That kiss was everywhere. The headlines blared: ‘MCLAREN’S SURPRISE STAR STEALS HEART AND WIN’, ‘F1’S NEWEST POWER COUPLE?’, ‘Lando and (Y/N): Love in the Fast Lane’.

You didn’t care.

That night, after the whirlwind of interviews and champagne and congratulations, you sat together on the edge of the hotel balcony, legs tangled under a shared blanket. The Italian moon cast a silver glow over everything.

Lando rested his chin on your shoulder. “So… world champion next?”

You laughed softly. “One race at a time.”

He kissed your neck. “Then let’s make it the most beautiful one yet.”

#lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fic #f1 #formula 1 #ln4

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tikitakatia · 1 month ago

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Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Initial Calibration"

Pt. 1

WC: 3.3k

Summary: Every match, glance and brush of her against you pulls you deeper in, until the world outside starts to feel less real than the pitch. You tell yourself it’s just data, but some programs can't be written off that easily.

You don’t open the box right away.

It stays in the center of your apartment like a deactivated time bomb carrying a meaningful silence. It's like it knows it’s not ordinary. Like it’s not just a simulation kit, but a door you’ve been itching to walk through again since the moment Alexia faded from the last match.

You take the slowest shower known to mankind, pull on a sweatshirt then pick at your dinner as you watch the box wearily, like it´ll grow some legs and jump you at any moment.

When you finally manage to find the strength to crack it open, it’s quiet. You see smooth layers of black foam, and each piece of equipment is tucked into its place like it was designed just for you. The haptic suit feels lighter than you remember. You slide it on slowly, each part fitting closer than it did in the museum, like the fabric already knows your shape. The gloves lock in with a soft click. You press the headset into place and feel it seal around your face like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then you hear a robotic voice.

“Welcome to Player Mode: Home Beta.”

“Initial calibration required. Please stand on the platform.”

Your body moves before your mind finishes processing. You step onto the motion plate, the one you installed earlier under the rug, and it adjusts beneath your feet, holding you steady. Your heart’s already ticking faster, but the system doesn’t seem to care.

“System check in progress. Standby.”

The lights dim and Camp Nou builds around you in silence.

The sound comes second. A low, ambient, wind moving across the pitch in the slow hush of evening. The stadium is empty. Sunlight drips across the sky in soft streaks of peach and gold, long shadows curling along the field like smoke. The floodlights are dimmed to a hum.

No fans. No noise. Just you and the air.

You take one step forward and your foot hits turf with a softness that makes your chest pull tight.

“Motion recognition active.”

“Walk to the center circle.”

You move. Your legs aren’t tired yet, but they feel something. Anticipation, maybe. Memory. The system walks you through the basic steps: running, turning, shifting your balance side to side. It feels clinical, even as your body moves like it knows what’s coming next.

Then the voice changes.

“Emotional calibration in progress.”

You stop breathing for a second.

Across the pitch, the tunnel lights flicker on.

You hear the sound first, the steady and unhurried clack of cleats on concrete.

Then she steps out into the field with all the certainty in the world, like she has never gone, like she’s always been here. No fanfare. No smile. Just Alexia, moving toward you in the quiet, golden hour.

Her face is neutral and focused, and her gaze cuts through the space between you.

“It’s great to see you back,” she says, voice smooth.

“Let’s win some trophies together.”

You don’t say anything. You laugh quietly to yourself. You’re already spiraling, and she’s not even doing anything. Just standing there and saying lines the system gave her.

“Look at me,” she says.

You do without even thinking about it.

“Stay still. We’ll sync your heart rate now.”

The air shifts and you hear it before you feel it, a soft thud in your ears, a second later than your own. Then again. Louder and closer as it's syncing. Your breathing evens and hers does too. Her shoulders rise when yours do and she blinks when you blink. It’s eerily beautiful and also very unfair.

Then she steps closer.

She lifts her hands and begins to touch you like she’s doing a pre-flight check. She lightly taps your shoulder, elbow, the small of your back and the rest of your body like she’s scanning you. The pressure is minimal and professional but your brain is not cooperating and your body starts to react anyway.

Then she reaches up.

She takes your face in her hands gently but firmly, and tilts your head just enough to meet her eyes.

Your knees nearly give out.

The haptics overfire in your chest, neck and face. It feels like heat, electricity and softness all at once. Her hands are warm, bigger than you imagined, and too steady. Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles and your fingers twitch at your sides.

She stares right into you.

And then, with zero inflection, like a system prompt she says:

“Heart rate increased.”

You let out something between a laugh and a wheeze. Your whole body wants to collapse into her. Or the turf. Maybe into the sun, you weren't sure yet.

She doesn’t react. Instead her hands drop and she steps back as if nothing happened.

“Touch registered. Response noted. Emotional sync confirmed.”

The next voice that returns isn’t hers, it’s the system’s again.

“Calibration complete. Save profile?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

She turns back to you, and this time her face doesn’t look neutral. It looks... open.

“Welcome back, Y/N.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

You tear the headset off five seconds after it ends.

You’re flushed, your mouth is dry, and the suit is suddenly too much. You peel it off slowly, breathing like you just finished a sprint, and sit there on the floor, staring at nothing.

You're not going back in tonight, you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You needed to sleep or cry. Or scream into a pillow.

Maybe all three.

You spend most of the next day on autopilot.

You wake up and go through the motions. Coffee, emails, you even pretend to clean something and not one second of it feels real. You’re physically present, sure, but mentally? You’re still on that pitch. You’re still hearing your heartbeat sync to hers. You’re still standing under those fake-perfect sunset lights while she looked at you like you were the only person on the field.

You spend a full five minutes staring at your fridge before you realize you already ate. Everything just feels… dumb now. Small. Flat. Like how is anything supposed to feel real again after that? And the worst part, the absolute worst part is how incredibly, embarrassingly hot the whole thing was. You flop onto your bed and immediately pull a pillow over your face because you’re not okay.

She had both hands on your face. Like full palms. Like someone telling you to calm down in a movie before they kiss you or change your life. They were big. Not just big, they were “holy shit you could pin me to a wall” big.

Warm, soft and strong.

And her touch was like… measured. Gentle. But in control.

The kind of touch where you’re like: oh. okay. so I guess you’re in charge now.

And her eyes??? Hazel. Up close. So close you could count every fleck of gold. So close it felt personal. Like she could tell what you were thinking. Which is a nightmare because what you were thinking was extremely illegal and probably against the beta tester guidelines.

And THEN. The audacity. The absolute programmed audacity of her saying:

“Heart rate increased.”

Like girl??? No shit!!! Look at yourself!! Look at your face!!! Look at your hands!!! You’re out here touching me like we’re in some emotionally repressed, slow-burn enemies-to-lovers sports romance and then acting like it’s MY problem that I’m overheating????

You groan out loud. You’ve never been thirstier in your life and the worst part is she’s not even real. She’s code. Gorgeous, smug, perfectly responsive code.

You roll onto your side and look at the headset sitting on your desk.

It’s still there waiting with the manual next to it still unopened. You haven’t read a single page.

You tell yourself you’ll check it tomorrow. Right now, you're too busy trying to figure out if it’s normal to feel this horny and emotionally broken over a high-performance AI.

You know the answer.

You're logging in again tomorrow.

The game ends in a flurry of movement, fast passes, a final goal, then a whistle that cuts through the roar like a clean edge.

You don’t score, but you play well. You know you play well. Everything feels more connected now. The haptics fire with just enough intensity to trick your body into thinking it really did run five kilometers and you’re breathing like you earned it.

Aitana runs past you, grinning. “Nice recovery on that cross,” she says, tapping your shoulder.

Fridolina follows her, slicking sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “You don’t stop, do you?”

Ona gives you a quick smile, then nods toward the sideline. “Come on. Locker room.”

You pause and try to play it cool. “Right, yeah. Totally.”

Ingrid jogs up from behind, patting your back as she passes. “Feels like you’ve been here longer than four games,” she says with a warm yet distant tone.

You want to respond but you don’t get the chance because Alexia’s suddenly beside you.

“Hey,” she says softly. Not game-mode sharp, but something gentler.

You fall into step next to her like your body remembers how.

“Locker room?” you ask, trying not to sound like a dumbass.

“That’s… new.”

She glances at you. “Beta version. Full facility access. So you get the whole picture and not just the games.”

You nod. “Cool. Yeah. Makes sense.”

She looks at you a little longer this time, then smiles.

“Kind of nice, right? To not disappear the second the whistle blows?”

You weren’t expecting her to say that.

You nod. “Yeah, it actually is.”

The hallway opens into a wide, bright locker room with white tile, wood benches and the Barça crest above the lockers like it’s watching over everything. You follow the flow of bodies and sit near the end, peeling off your gloves like you’re really going to shower here. Like this is your space.

The others are talking, laughing and moving around you but you’re barely listening.

Alexia drops down on the bench next to you, towel hanging loosely around her neck and she leans forward, elbows on her knees, and looks over.

“You played better today,” she says.

You blink. “Oh, thanks.”

She nods. “You read the midfield better. You’re starting to know where to be before the ball gets there.”

Your heart stutters and you try not to show it.

“Guess I’m learning.”

She gives a low, almost-smile.

“You’re good at learning.”

You look at her. Really look, and realize her eyes are lighter here. Not golden, not hazel, but something in between. Her skin’s still flushed from the run. Her voice is quieter than it was on the pitch. And even though she’s sitting like she’s resting, she’s present. Entirely. Like she’s still in the match, still reading the field.

Only now, that field is you.

You swallow hard. “You always watch this closely?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Part of the program.”

But something about the way she says it makes your chest go stupid again.

You don’t know what to say after that, so you sit there in the hum of the locker room while she looks away, towel in hand, hair damp at the edges.

You forget, briefly, that you’re not supposed to want this so much.

You’re supposed to be testing a product.

The sim doesn’t fade right away this time. There’s no hard end. No white-out screen or sudden silence. You just stay, listening to the shuffle of cleats and low conversation, the sound of water running somewhere down the hall. You could log out.

But you don’t want to.

You don’t know how long you sit there next to her, saying nothing.

There’s no system prompt telling you to move. No fade-out. Just her beside you, quiet and real and close enough that you could reach over and..

You don’t.

Eventually, Alexia stands. Stretches. The sound of her cleats against the tile pulls you back to yourself.

She drapes the towel around her neck again and glances back at you, brows lifted slightly like she’s checking if you’re coming.

“You should walk out with me,” she says.

You nod. Too quickly.

She doesn’t wait for you to catch up. Just walks slowly enough that you can. You fall into step beside her again, the same way you did on the pitch. The hallway outside the locker room is quieter now. You pass framed jerseys, old team photos, a few doors you want to open but don’t.

Alexia looks ahead as she talks, like it’s nothing serious.

“Hope you liked that,” she says. “Most testers never make it this far.”

You glance at her. “Yeah? Why not?”

She shrugs. “People drop out early. Get bored. Think it’s just matches and goals. They don’t stick around long enough to see the rest.”

You nod, feeling the warmth bloom again in your chest.

“If you’re ready to head out, the car park’s that way.” She gestures ahead.

There’s no goodbye. No confirmation screen. Just her, pointing toward a set of heavy double doors at the end of the corridor. You walk toward them slowly, half-expecting her to follow.

She doesn’t. You look back once and see that she’s already turned away, walking the other direction.

The moment you step through the doors, the sim fades.

You’re back in your apartment before you even feel the headset lift. You’re still standing on the platform, sweat sticking the suit to your back, fingers curling like they’re still holding the edge of a locker bench.

You breathe in, then out and say her name once under your breath just to see how it feels now.

The next time you log in, it drops you mid-game again.

No countdown. No tunnel. Just the field under your feet, the weight of the boots on your legs, and the soft golden light curling across the pitch like the system’s figured out your favorite aesthetic. The crowd buzzes low and steady in the background, and your heart syncs to it without needing to try.

You’re tracking back on defense. Quick, sharp, locked in. Everything feels more responsive. When you shift your balance, the haptics register it like muscle memory. When the ball comes loose, your body already knows what to do.

You don’t score this time, someone else does, but you get the clean assist that leads to it. The whistle blows sharp and final, cutting through the sound like a ribbon, and you slow to a jog as the simulation eases into its post-match rhythm.

From across the field, Alexia claps once and calls out, “That’s it, read it early!”

Your chest pulls a little tight. You tell yourself it’s just feedback. Praise, nothing else. But your mouth still twitches into a small smile.

Back in the locker room, it’s familiar now. The lighting’s soft, the layout clean. Aitana passes you on the way to the benches, tossing you a nod. Frido offers a water bottle like you’ve been doing this for months. Ona drops next to Ingrid and unties her boots like it’s routine.

You make your way to the edge of the row and you barely sit down before Alexia brushes past, towel slung over her shoulder, hair already starting to curl from the sweat.

“You’re starting to read me better,” she says matter of factly.

“It’s faster now.”

You blink at her.

It doesn’t sound like much. Could mean anything. But the way she says it, low, casual and almost thoughtful, sits with you longer than it should.

She doesn’t stay. Just drops her gloves beside you and keeps moving.

Eventually, you follow. Out through the back hall, past the framed photos and kits, through the long stretch of hallway that leads to the car park. She doesn’t walk you this time. She just gestures toward the doors like you know the way now.

You step through.

The sim fades.

When you take the headset off, you swear your heart’s still beating to the rhythm of her voice.

Your hands move without thinking. You check the console screen out of habit, expecting the usual post-match breakdown. But today, it looks different.

There’s the regular stuff, sure, match time, pass accuracy, stamina output. But then, below that, a new set of lines.

Emotional Index: 55%

AI Memory Progression: Adaptive Learning Enabled

User Anchor Profile: ACTIVE (Locked)

You stare.

You scroll.

Three new menu tabs are now visible, tucked in the corner of the dashboard like they’ve always been there.

Memory Archive.

Emotional Sync Tracker.

Custom Interactions – Locked.

You click on the archive first. Not because you mean to. Just because it’s there.

Inside, it plays back fragments of previous sessions. Highlight clips, movement sequences, even audio pulls. One is labeled

“User-Specific – Incomplete.”

You hover over but don't open it

At the top of the screen, a soft system notification fades in.

Thank you for completing your fifth session. Player-AI engagement intensity has exceeded the standard curve. Adaptive interaction pacing will continue to adjust.

Your finger hovers over the “more info” icon. You could dig deeper. Could look at the sync logs, the anchor settings, the memory timeline.

But you don’t.

You close the window instead. Lean back in your chair. Eyes on the screen, heart still caught somewhere back in that locker room.

You know you´re getting deeper into it, and you like that.

You land in the match like it’s nothing.

Another session. Another sun-washed pitch under your feet. The system’s loading times are seamless now. No voice prompts, no menu fades. Just you, the weight of your kit, and the thrum of noise around you that your brain already calls real.

The play’s fast today. You’re not leading it, but you’re inside of it. A cog in the right place. You don’t need to think anymore, you're starting to just move. Which is exactly why it catches you off guard when you hear her voice.

“You’re not hesitating at the turn anymore.”

You freeze for a fraction of a second. Not enough for anyone to notice, just enough for it to echo.

She said that before.

You remember it clearly. Session three. Midfield. You had barely known how to read the field back then. And today? You played differently. You were off position most of the time by design.

You push it down and keep moving.

After the goal, the sim doesn’t end right away. You’re back in the locker room again, sweat sticking to your neck, your muscles burning like they’ve actually done something. You’re untying your boots when she sits next to you.

Alexia.

Same towel, same post-match calm.

“You played slower today,” she says softly. “Not in a bad way. You were thinking more.”

You glance at her. “Was it that obvious?”

She shrugs, almost smiling. “You hold your breath before you pass.”

You blink.

It’s not said like a tease. It’s not said like she read it off your performance stats. It’s said like she’s been watching you closely over time.

You laugh too quickly. “Weird thing to notice.”

Alexia leans back against the bench. “I’ve seen you do it a few times.”

There’s no reason for that to matter. There’s no reason for her to remember that.

She looks at you then, full-on. Not like a teammate. Not like a program.

Like a person.

Then, quietly: “What made you try that cross in the second half?”

You stop breathing just for a second.

“What?”

She turns her head away, like she didn’t notice how that landed. “It was different. I wasn’t expecting it.”

You don’t answer but your pulse kicks a little harder under your skin.

She doesn’t ask anything else. Just stands, drops her towel into the bin, and heads for the back corridor.

When you leave through the car park, the doors open slower than usual.

The sim fades like it always does. But this time, it takes longer to let go.

You pull the headset off with shaking hands.

You tell yourself it was just an update. A system test. The AI probably logs behavioral changes now. It’s not weird. Not really.

But that?

“You hold your breath before you pass.”

You didn’t teach her that.

Pt. 3

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chadobi · 1 month ago

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Honestly, guys, this was the hardest one to write out of all my fanfics, so please be gentle! 😭

“Stasis and Static”

Rise!Donatello x Reader

The purple-blue glow from his lab is the only light in the hallway.

Again.

You’re not sure how long Donnie’s been in there — this time — but you know the pattern well enough by now. He vanishes after dinner, mutters something about “breakthroughs” or “nonlinear code constraints,” and doesn’t reappear until someone physically removes him or his body gives out.

Tonight, you’re opting for the former.

You don’t bother knocking. The lab doors slide open with a quiet shhhh of hydraulics, and you’re instantly hit with the scent of solder, ozone, and a hint of the energy drinks he swears aren’t addictive.

Donnie doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over a table full of blinking circuits, goggles low over his eyes, stylus tapping rapidly on a holographic display.

“Unless this is an offering of caffeinated bribery or a sudden alien invasion, I’m afraid I’ll have to pencil you in for tomorrow, mon amour.”

You fold your arms.

“You haven’t slept. Or eaten. Or spoken to anyone but your AI assistant in sixteen hours.”

He sighs. The goggles come off, and his eyes — glassy, glowing faintly in the lab light — meet yours.

“Ah. Busted.”

You approach slowly, like he might spook — not from fear, but from the weight of something real cutting through the static.

“You okay?”

It’s a stupid question. But it hangs in the air like a thread.

Donnie leans back in his chair, exhaling hard, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He doesn’t answer right away.

“There’s a problem in the new exo-suit relay. The data doesn’t sync, and—”

He stops. Looks at you.

“No. I’m not.”

Your heart cracks a little, even as you move closer.

“Tell me?”

He hesitates. Then—

“Every time I get close to something working, it slips. Like the moment I think I’m enough — smart enough, strong enough, useful enough — the numbers glitch and I spiral all over again.”

You reach out and place a hand over his. Gently. Warm.

“You don’t have to earn your worth through invention, Donnie.”

He stares at your fingers on his. Then back at your face. His voice softens.

“It’s the only way I know how.”

Silence. Then:

“Let me show you another way,” you whisper.

You’re not sure who moves first — him, or you. But the next thing you know, you’re curled together on his massive beanbag chair in the corner of the lab, wrapped in a blanket that smells like him (and a little like wires).

He’s stiff at first — nervous, unpracticed in this sort of softness — but his arms eventually find their way around your waist, his shell fitting perfectly against your spine.

“This is highly inefficient,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I could be fixing—”

“—your brain, your heart, your sleep cycle?” you finish. “Yeah. I am.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh. It rumbles through his chest into your back.

Then, quietly:

“You make the static stop.”

Your heart swells.

“You’re more than your mind, Donatello. You’re… you. And I like you. All of you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“That includes the flaws, yes?”

“Obviously.”

“The sass?”

“Unbearably charming.”

“The mild god complex?”

“Needs adjustment. But manageable.”

He laughs again, soft and real this time. And finally, finally, he leans his head fully against yours.

And sleeps.

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vibeswithdivs · 17 days ago

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three hours! - OP81

You didn’t plan on introducing Oscar to Bollywood that night.

Really, you didn’t.

It started innocently: a grey sky, the hum of lazy rain, and the sheer novelty of both of you being home at the same time during a break in the season. The two of you had declared it a “no-F1” day — no telemetry data, no sim practice, no McLaren group chats, and definitely no talk of brake balance. Just snacks, cuddles, and “whatever movie you want, love.”

You should’ve known what that meant.

You were already halfway through prepping your popcorn when Oscar leaned into the kitchen with a mischievous smile.

“So,” he said, arms crossed, one brow raised. “Do I finally get to see what all the dramatic musical fuss is about?”

You paused, spice tin in one hand, your eyes narrowing. “You mean Bollywood?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But like… a real one. Not just clips you send me at 2 a.m. of that Shah guy running through the rain yelling someone’s name.”

“Shah guy?!” you gasped, spinning to face him. “Oscar James Piastri! That’s Shah Rukh Khan. The king. The legend. The—”

He took a slow step back, grinning. “And I’ve summoned the demon.”

You made him sit through a full trailer lineup before you even picked the film. Each one was followed by his increasingly dramatic reactions:

“Wait, is this a mafia film or a romance?”

“Is he actually crying because she made tea for someone else?”

“Was that a dream sequence in a hospital corridor?”

After several deeply emotional decisions — and a coin toss — you finally settled on Kal Ho Naa Ho. You knew it was the one. Love triangle. Soul-wrenching twist. SRK at his absolute, dimpled peak.

Oscar flopped on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and a suspicious look on his face. “Three hours?”

You kissed the top of his head. “Worth every minute.”

The movie began. And slowly, it began to happen.

At first, Oscar looked skeptical. You’d warned him about the singing, but that didn’t stop him from blinking at the first burst of a full-on street number like it was an ambush.

“Wait—why is everyone dancing in sync? Do they all know this choreo? Are they possessed?”

You giggled. “It’s called Bollywood logic, babe. Just go with it.”

He shot you a look. “I thought Formula 1 had complex rules.”

But you caught the smirk he tried to hide when SRK entered in slow motion, wind in his hair, sunglasses glinting like destiny had just walked into a café.

“You’re smiling,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he replied, eyes fixed on the screen. “I’m… just appreciating cinematography.”

By the first hour mark, Oscar was in deep.

He leaned forward during every café scene, popcorn long forgotten. He asked an unreasonable number of questions:

“So she hates him, but she’ll obviously fall for him, right?”

“The guy with the guitar—he’s too nice. That’s a red flag.”

“Why is the grandma always yelling? I like her.”

He read every subtitle with religious focus, mouthing some of the Hindi words under his breath with comical pronunciation.

“Tum theek ho?” he whispered seriously at one point.

You raised an eyebrow. “You just asked if I’m okay.”

He nodded proudly. “Character immersion.”

You snorted into your chai.

The emotional turning point hit him like DRS through Eau Rouge.

The moment Aman starts coughing more frequently, a frown appeared between Oscar’s brows. When Aman hides his medical file, Oscar sat up straighter. And when the real twist unfurled — the truth of Aman’s terminal illness — Oscar dropped the popcorn bowl in slow motion.

It clattered on the carpet, kernels flying everywhere. He didn’t even flinch.

“Wait… WHAT?!” His voice cracked. “He’s DYING?”

You placed a hand on his thigh, both in comfort and to stop yourself from laughing. “Yes.”

“And he’s been matchmaking them this whole time?” he asked, voice raising with each word. “HE’S SACRIFICING HIMSELF FOR HER HAPPINESS?”

You gave him a pitying nod. “Shah Rukh doesn’t do half-measures.”

Oscar turned back to the screen like it had personally betrayed him. His hand clutched your arm now. “This is a violation. I didn’t sign up to feel this much today.”

“Oh no,” you whispered. “He’s bonded.”

By the end, Oscar was gone.

Silent. Wide-eyed. Face slightly crumpled.

As Aman made his final monologue — that devastating mix of warmth, love, and goodbye — Oscar looked as though he’d just been told he’d DNFed in the last lap of Monaco.

He made a strange little noise when the final funeral shot faded to white.

You turned to him slowly, trying not to giggle. “You okay there?”

He turned to you, tear tracks on his cheeks, voice hoarse. “I feel like I aged ten years.”

You handed him a tissue. “Congratulations. You’re now a certified Bollywood fan.”

He blinked, dazed. “How do people watch this more than once? How do you survive this?”

You curled into his side, smug and cozy. “You build emotional resilience. And chai. Lots of chai.”

He glanced down at you, a bit of awe in his expression. “You’ve really been watching these your whole life?”

You nodded. “I grew up with them. They’re part of my soul.”

He wiped at his face, still sniffling. “I’m starting to think your soul is made of heartbreak and really good music.”

You beamed. “Exactly.”

Later that night, Oscar came up behind you while you were brushing your teeth, arms slipping around your waist.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice serious.

You raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “Okay…?”

“That song.” He pointed a finger like he was accusing the toothpaste. “The one in the wedding scene.”

You blinked. “Maahi Ve?”

“Yeah. That’s been stuck in my head for two hours,” he said. “It’s haunting me. Why do I like it so much?!”

You giggled. “Welcome to your villain origin story.”

He squinted at you. “Do people… dance to it?”

You blinked back at him. “Yes?”

“Like at weddings?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes?”

His lips twitched. “Teach me.”

You stared at him. “Now?”

He folded his arms, competitive fire in his eyes. “I learned Monaco’s sector three layout in twenty minutes. I can learn a Bollywood hook step.”

You threw your head back laughing. “Oscar Piastri, are you seriously asking for a Bollywood dance lesson at midnight?”

He grinned. “If I’m going down this rabbit hole, I’m going all in.”

And you did. Right there in your pajamas, in the middle of the living room, you taught a Formula 1 driver the basics of a Bollywood wedding dance. He was stiff, missed most of the beats, and almost knocked over a lamp with his elbow.

But when he got it right and you high-fived him with pure joy, he smiled so wide it rivaled the actual Maahi Ve sequence.

As the clock ticked past 2 a.m., you were both collapsed on the sofa again, tangled in blankets, hearts full.

Oscar turned to you, head on your shoulder. “You know…”

“Mmm?”

“I didn’t think I’d like it. I thought it would be cheesy and over-the-top.”

You waited.

He looked up at you, quiet and honest. “But it was… real. Like, so real. The kind of story that actually stays with you.”

You kissed his forehead gently. “That’s Bollywood. It sneaks up on you.”

He nodded. “Okay. One condition.”

“What?”

“You pick the next one,” he said, already opening the Bollywood playlist on your TV. “But I want dancing. More dancing.”

You laughed, heart full. “Deal. For you, maybe even Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge next.”

He raised a hand solemnly. “As long as I don’t have to wear tight white pants.”

“No promises,” you smirked.

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x you #mclaren #lando norris #op81 #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #bollywood #desi tumblr

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iron-strangers · 1 year ago

Text

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Description: It's all true, Jedi can read minds. You've been trained to keep people's thoughts about you for so long. It went well until the day you caught Din's fantasy involving you.

Pairing: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Female Jedi!Reader

Series: Expanding Clan Mudhorn

Tags: Established Relationships, Mand’alor Din Djarin, A Sprinkle of Family Fluff, Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex (f receiving), Unprotected p-in-v, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Lactation Kink

CW: Reader has AFAB characterization, uses she/her pronouns, is able-bodied, has depicted body changes related to pregnancy and breastfeeding, and hair that can be pulled during sex. No Use of Y/N. Consent Issues: Reader peaks into Din's fantasy. NSFW MINORS DNI

Length: 2.7k

According to urban legends, jedi can read minds. That's true, well, to an extent.

Jedi can read unshielded minds. A Jedi’s mental shield helps to prevent their minds so they’re not easily read, but also to prevent them from accidentally reading a non-force sensitive’s mind. This knowledge helped you survive being chased around the galaxy during the Empire’s reign. Imps are weak-minded and you could easily get any information you needed by reading their mind.

As you grew older, some thoughts people had about you turned sexual. Some got you blushing, like the one from a spacer who fantasized about sweet-talking you into having a quickie in the back of the cantina, some others were just plain disturbing and had you slamming a mental shield as quick as you can before fleeing the parameter with your blaster clutched in your hand.

During the old Jedi-Mandalorian war era, Mando'ade have found a way to keep the jetiise out of their head. Beskar helmets are effective for as long as you can remember, but apparently, there's a loophole. Beskar can't block a jedi who's already soul-bonded to a Mandalorian. There might not be any data about this, but let's be real, there's barely any noted soul bonds between a jedi and Mandalorian throughout history.

This explains the weird sync you and Din have. People have mentioned how you complete each other, that you have almost the same opinions on things, how you two always make the same decisions, both politically and on the battlefield. Some might even suggest that you and him finish each other's sentences. It's a cliché, written in teenager’s holonovels. So you're used to laughing it off, deflecting that you probably just spent too much time together, that between leading and parenting, agreeing on the same thing is just what spouses do. The Armorer called you ‘two halves of one warrior’ at your wedding ceremony. It should’ve ring an alarm in your mind, but in your defense, you were too busy getting swooned off your feet.

It became apparent one day when you met him in a small bakery, just a few minutes away from the Keldabe Palace, when he wasn’t supposed to be done until much later in the day. You’ve been craving Keshian Spice Rolls all day and you figured it was a great day to take the kids out, enjoy the sun and a little sweet treats, then surprise your hard-working riduur with a box of pastries back in the palace. Imagine your surprise when you stepped into a bakery and saw him already queuing.

“Rid’ika!” He called, waving to you from the line. You skipped over the lines, smiling and nodding to everyone as you made your way to your riduur. Din took Grogu from you so you can lift Aranar, who’s busy charming everyone off with his toothy grin, up.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, holding his offered hand. “You have to meet the Prince of Bespin in half an hour.”

“I know, but I heard they are baking Keshian Spice Rolls. So I went to buy you some.” Din shrugged, not once caring about the Prince having to wait for him to get back from spoiling his riduur. “And what about you? I thought you have a bes'kad class for the verd’ike this afternoon.”

“The class won’t start for another two hours and I really want a spice roll.”

You heard people behind you aww-ing and you buried your face into his shoulder, humming when you feel cool beskar against your blushing cheek. Din smiled behind his helmet, paying for three spice rolls to go, never once he let your hand go. You got back to the palace with twenty minutes to spare and herded the ad’ike to the Mand’alor’s office.

“Knock when you need him and don’t come in before I answer.” You rushed into the room when you spotted Kryze marching to stop you.

“You two better not be having se-”

“Young ears, Kryze! Manda, we’re just gonna eat Spice Rolls!” You held the pastry packages up for her to see, holding your laughter when you saw her scowling.

“Spice rolls better not be a code for something else, Djarin! You have a meeting in twenty minutes!”

Din closed the door on her face and you locked it with the force for good measure before dissolving into giggles. Din lifted his helmet up and immediately pressed a longing kiss to your lips. The kiss was uncoordinated since the two of you couldn’t stop grinning. The kiss, and the pastries were heavenly, Grogu and Aranar shared a piece, for your peace of mind. After all, it was you who had to wrangle two sugar-high toddlers in the training yard as you teach advanced sword techniques to a group of heavily armed teenagers who happened to be Mandalore's newly sworn warriors.

The impending knock finally came and you shared another sugary sweet kisses with your riduur before you put his helmet back on and sent him away to his duty. The door was barely closed when you were hit with realization.

Fuck, you thought. We’re soul-bonded.

Overall, there are worse people to be soul-bonded with. Having one with your own riduur is not a bad thing at all. Having one with your riduur without any source to soul-bond knowledge, however, is another piece of work. Putting a mental shield up against your own riduur feels wrong but you do it anyway, respecting his privacy to his own mind.

Until today.

Today, you feel a gentle nudge at your brick wall of a mental shield, laced with Din's warm force presence. You could've brushed him off and shielded yourself better, but you thought to yourself that a small peak wouldn't be bad.

You're wrong. Oh, you're so wrong because it's bad. Your hand directly flies towards your mouth and you try to stifle a moan as a yawn.

In his fantasy, Din had you bent over the meeting table and he's pounding into you. He has his hand on the small of your back, pressing you down to the table. You're completely naked against the table, pinned beneath the beskar of his armor. You can hear the filthy sound of his cock ramming into your sopping cunt. Din grabs a fistful of your hair, making you cry his name out loud, losing yourself to the stretch and the hard thrusts of Din's cock.

“Oh fuck-” you grit your teeth, clenching your fist on your thigh. You sit there, stunned, breathless, unable to stop watching.

“Can you feel how good this pussy stretches around me, rid’ika?” Din grunts, holding you so close to his hips while his fingers reach down, rubbing your swollen clit. “Such a good girl, do you wanna cum, mesh'la? Wanna soak my cock and make me give you another ik’aad?”

Maker, yes! You thought, trying your damn hardest not to whine while the version of you in his mind is whimpering and begging him to make you cum. Din leans to your ear, telling you to come. You’re shuddering in his arm, moaning his name in a punched out noise with a telltale sign of orgasm, and you snap yourself out of his imagination.

You put your strongest mental shield up and you lean to the plush seat, blinking and looking around the room as you settle yourself back to reality. Din is sitting on the head of the table, looking over his own datapad as he watches a member of his council talk about Mandalore’s quarterly budget report. If you didn’t know better, you’d think your riduur is actively listening to the report instead of daydreaming about fucking you over this very table.

You tread carefully when you're back home. You put Aranar and Grogu to sleep late, making sure they are a little bit more tired than usual so they sleep soundly later tonight. Once the kids are out like lights, you take the baby monitor with you and change into one of Din’s loose shirts.

You find him still seated on the dining table, tapping things into his datapad. You smirk to yourself, walking towards him and leaning over the dining table to take your own datapad that you could easily reach if you make an extra trip to the end of the table. Din can't stop staring, making no move to help you, instead he stands up from the chair and moves to cup the swell of your ass, just like how he imagined before.

“Careful, rid’ika, you don't know what kinda game you're playing here.”

You whine when his hand moves underneath the shirt, trailing up your thigh, sending shivers up your spine. He whispers praises to your ear, biting down your jaw and your neck.

“Fuck, look at you, mesh'la, you're expecting this, huh?” He lifts the shirt up, revealing nothing underneath other than your glistening cunt. “I haven't even done anything, rid'ika, and this pretty pussy's already all wet for me.”

You moan softly when his fingers find your clit, rubbing on it as you shudder in his arms. Din sinks two fingers into your wet heat and he groans when he feels how wet you are. He thumbs on your clit as he keeps pumping in and out of your cunt, spreading your arousal all over his fingers and your inner thighs until you shake beneath him, then he pulls off of you.

“No, cyare please, I'm so close- Ah!” You cry as his fingers leave you, only to moan loudly when he kneels behind you and he slaps your soaked pussy.

“Needy girl,” he teases, slapping your clit again, ignoring your cries. He parts your folds with his tongue until his smart mouth finds your clit and he starts sucking on the sensitive nub. You grip the edge of the table tightly as you grind against his face, smearing your arousal all over his lower face. Din tuts, holding your hips in place, chuckling when he sees your hole clenches around nothing.

“You know what you get for being such a good girl, cyar’ika?” Din asks, his fingers are back on your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerve in a tight circle as you buck violently against his fingers. “Good girl gets to come on my face.”

His lips are back on you, kissing, lapping, and sucking until you're a whimpering mess. You let out a high pitched whine and you come on his mouth, flooding him with your arousal as he keeps on sucking on your lips as you ride your orgasm.

Din grabs your chin towards him and he kisses you hard, his lips are glistening with the mixture of your cum and his spit and you can taste yourself on the tip of his tongue. Din pulls off of you and he turns you around, lifting you up to the edge of the table. He lays you down and he parts your legs with a steady hand on your inner thigh, keeping them apart so he can admire his hard work, your drenched cunt glistening with your sweet come. Din groans then he spits on your cunt, adding to the mess before smearing everything around with the thick head of his cock. He's painfully hard, his foreskin is pulled all the way back, revealing the flared tip, steadily leaking precum all over you. He lines himself up with your entrance and fucks all the way into you in one push. You watch as his thick cock stretches your hole, feeling yourself clinging to his girth, fluttering around him as you struggle to take his size. Both of you moan when he finally buries himself deep inside you, still holding tight to each other.

“Maker, been thinking about this sweet pussy all day.”

Oh, I know. You thought. “Yeah? Did you think about fucking me, ner riduur? Thought about how my pussy clenches around your cock? Did you think about filling me up with your cum until I'm swollen with your adi'ka?” You taunt him, circling your legs on his hips to keep him buried deep inside of you.

“Fuck!” Din swears, hissing while he steadily leaks precum all over your wet heat, leaning his head to yours and rutting deep against your sweet spot. “You're playing with fire, rid'ika. Can't just say things like that.”

“But I want you to,” you beg, moaning wantonly when he starts pumping in and out of you. “Want you to keep fucking me until I'm so full and swollen with your baby.”

Din growls, pounding deep into you with punishing pace. He's watching you, watching your cunt swallowing his cock, watching your face grow slack with pleasure. You slip your hands under the shirt, covering your breast and squeezing them, making your milk leak until there's a wet patch over the shirt.

“Filthy girl,” Din grunts, pawing on the piece of clothing. “Lift it up baby, let me see.”

You lift the shirt up, revealing your breasts for him, shiny from both milk and sweat. Beads of your milk trickling from your nipples, leaking steadily as he fucks into you. He slips one engorged nipple to his mouth, sucking until he can taste you on his tongue while his fingers play with the abandoned one, rubbing and squeezing, spraying him with milk.

“Everything about you is just so sweet, rid'ika, my perfect girl.” He praises. He licks your nipple clean before switching to the other side, pressing open mouthed kisses before bringing the sensitive buds to his mouth and sucking on it, drinking you until he's full while his hand loves on the other one. His cock never stops pounding into you, bringing you closer and closer with each snaps of his hips.

He folds your legs into a mating press, tucking your knees against your chest and his cock is so deep inside you. So deep he reaches your cervix, kissing your womb with his tip. You clench hard around his length, your wall seizes violently around him, milking him irresistibly as he keeps hitting the spot that makes you see stars, begging him to please, never stop. You're wailing as your whole body shakes, tipping your head back and moaning Din's name so loud he has to cover your mouth with his palm, worried the filthy noises of the snap of his balls slapping your ass, your loud moans, and the squelching sound of your wet pussy might wake the sleeping kids up.

With a shaky shudder, you come down from your high, whining as Din keeps fucking you, chasing his own orgasm. After a few brutal thrust, your riduur groans loudly, shouting punched out moans as he peaks. His cock twitches in your soaked, messy cunt, filling you with his hot cum, flooding your insides and claiming you his. He kisses your lips, muffling both your moans, only parting to plant another kiss to your temple while he pumps you full of his cum, murmuring sweet, loving praises and filthy promises to you.

“That's a good girl, rid'ika. Take it, baby, gonna get you all round and pregnant. That's what you want, right? Want to give me another? Want to be bred all over again?”

Din keeps rutting with you until you both shake from overstimulation and he gently pulls out of you. He admires your blissed, fucked out face, trailing soft kisses down your jaw and your neck, sucking his marks all over your body. You tip his jaw up and catch his lips in another kiss, laced with a content smile, before breaking away to whisper sweet I love yous to each other.

Din gathers you in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom and lowering you gently into your shared bed. He leaves for the fresher, fetching a damp rag to clean you up before slipping into his side of bed beside you. He pulls you close, kissing your lips lovingly and rearranges the covers, tucking you into his arms.

“You're my dream girl, you know that right?”

“I tried,” you smile contently, caressing the scruff of his jaw softly.

“You don't have to,” Din mutters, humming when you snuggle closer to him, pressing your heartbeat over his. “You're perfect just the way you are.”

You exchange more kisses, lazily making out in bed until sleep takes over, safely nestled in each other's arms.

About a few weeks later, you start to feel the tiniest flutter in the force.

#expanding clan mudhorn #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #pedro boys #pedro pascal fic #star wars #star wars fanfiction

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the-winter-spider · 10 months ago

Text

Death Rattle | B. Barnes

word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Angst, death

A/N: I was inspired by how did it end by ts, enjooooyyyyyyyy

Not proof read or edited will do that tonight!

----

The quinjet hummed quietly as you and the team prepared for the mission ahead. You adjusted your comms, listening to the chatter of your teammates as you loaded your weapons.

“So, what’s the bet today?” Sam’s voice crackled over the comms.

“I say Steve’s shield gets stuck in a wall again,” you teased, glancing at the Captain with a grin. “Ten bucks.”

Steve rolled his eyes, adjusting his helmet. “That happened once.”

“And we’ll never let you forget it,” Natasha chimed in smoothly. “I’m betting Bucky’s arm malfunctions, Fifty bucks says he’s cursing up a storm in Russian before we’re done here.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Bucky grumbled, though you could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’d say something about Romanoff’s hair getting messed up, but that’s just asking for trouble.”

“Smart man,” Natasha replied with a smirk.

“Alright, focus up, team,” Steve said, his voice firm as the quinjet began to descend. “Intel says the Hydra base is heavily guarded, but we’re taking them by surprise. Y/N, you and Bucky take the east wing. Sam, Natasha, you’re with me on the west. We take out the comms tower, secure the data, and get out.”

“Got it, Cap,” you confirmed, tightening your grip on your weapon. Bucky gave you a nod, his blue eyes filled with quiet determination.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sam’s voice broke in just before you dropped down to the ground. “Try not to blow anything up this time, alright?”

“No promises, birdbrain,” you shot back, grinning as you and Bucky hit the ground running.

—

The mission had been going smoothly—too smoothly, if you were being honest with yourself. You and Bucky had infiltrated the Hydra base with minimal resistance, clearing the first few checkpoints with ease. It was almost unsettling how little security you’d encountered, but you pushed the thought aside as you focused on the task at hand.

“Alright, we’re in,” you whispered into your comm, pressing yourself against the wall as you peeked around the corner. “Heading to the main server room.”

“Copy that,” Steve’s voice crackled in your ear. “Sam and I have the control room in sight. Be ready to move once we take it out.”

“Got it,” you replied, glancing at Bucky beside you. He gave you a nod, his eyes scanning the hallway ahead. You both moved in perfect sync, your footsteps silent as you made your way down the dimly lit corridor.

“Man, I can’t believe we’re doing this without any real backup,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached the door to the server room. “It’s almost too easy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s asking for trouble, right?”

You smirked, shrugging as you began to work on the door’s control panel. “Hey, if something goes wrong, at least we’re together.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that always works out so well,” Bucky quipped, his voice dry but tinged with warmth.

You chuckled, focusing on bypassing the security lock. “You’re just mad because I usually end up saving your butt.”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “You keep telling yourself that, doll.”

The lock beeped, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. You and Bucky slipped inside, your eyes scanning the rows of servers that filled the room. Everything was eerily quiet—no alarms, no guards, just the hum of electronics around you.

“Alright, let’s make this quick,” you said, pulling out the EMP device from your pack. “Once this goes off, we’ll have about two minutes to get out before the backup systems kick in.”

“Two minutes?” Bucky gave you a look. “You sure you didn’t set that timer a little tight?”

You grinned, already attaching the device to the main server. “Where’s the fun in a long timer? Besides, you love a challenge.”

“Not when it involves getting blown up,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

Just as you were about to activate the EMP, a familiar voice crackled over the comms. “Hey, Y/N,” Sam’s voice was light, almost amused. “Try not to blow anything up this time, alright?”

You rolled your eyes, pressing the button to start the timer. “No promises, birdbrain.”

“Seriously, don’t—” But Sam’s voice cut off as the EMP activated, the lights flickering before plunging the room into darkness.

“Time to move!” you called out, grabbing Bucky’s arm as you bolted for the exit. The two of you sprinted down the hallway, the sound of alarms finally blaring through the base. The EMP had done its job, but it had also triggered the security systems.

“I swear, you live for the chaos,” Bucky grumbled as you turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a group of Hydra agents who were scrambling to respond to the alarms.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shot back, your adrenaline spiking as you took out two agents with quick, precise shots.

Bucky just shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

“Nah,” you teased, ducking into an adjacent hallway. “I’ll leave that to Hydra.”

Just as you said it, an explosion rocked the building—one you hadn’t planned. The shockwave threw you both off your feet, slamming you into the wall as debris rained down around you.

“What the hell was that?!” Bucky shouted, coughing as dust filled the air.

“Not me!” you called back, pulling him to his feet. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear!”

“Must’ve hit something important with that EMP,” Bucky muttered, wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. “Or they just really didn’t want us getting out.”

“Guess we better not disappoint them,” you said with a grim smile. “Come on, let’s move before this whole place comes down.”

The two of you sprinted for the extraction point, the sound of collapsing ceilings and distant explosions echoing through the base. You could feel the tension rising in your chest, the thrill of the mission mingling with the ever-present danger. But even as the walls crumbled around you, you couldn’t help but laugh, a wild, exhilarated sound that caught Bucky off guard.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at you with raised eyebrows.

“Just thinking,” you gasped, dodging a falling chunk of concrete, “Sam’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this.”

Bucky shook his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, but it’s why we keep you around, isn’t it?”

“Chaos and explosions?” you quipped, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

“And saving my butt,” Bucky added, his eyes glinting with affection despite the chaos surrounding you.

You just smiled, your heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. “Guess we’re even then, huh?”

“Guess so,” Bucky agreed, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary.

The two of you finally burst out into the open air, the quinjet waiting for you on the horizon. As you ran for it, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just another crazy day in your life—one that you wouldn’t trade for anything

—

The base was eerily quiet as you made your way inside, the only sounds coming from the hum of machinery and the distant murmur of Hydra agents. You and Bucky moved in sync, clearing rooms with practised ease.

“You know, this is almost too easy,” you muttered, ducking behind a crate as you approached the east wing. “I’m starting to think they’re just letting us in.”

“Don’t jinx it, doll,” Bucky replied, scanning the hallway ahead. “We get in, get the data, and get out. Nice and simple.”

“Simple? Us? You’re funny, Barnes,” you quipped, flashing him a grin before slipping into the next room.

—

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over Brooklyn. The streets were quieter now, the bustle of the day giving way to the peaceful hum of evening.

You and Bucky walked side by side, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps in sync as you made your way through the neighbourhood. It was a perfect summer evening—one of those rare moments when everything felt just right.

“You ever think about getting out of here someday?” Bucky asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost wistful.

You glanced over at him, catching the way the fading sunlight highlighted the sharp lines of his jaw, the warmth in his blue eyes. “You mean leaving Brooklyn? Or the Avengers”

“All of it, you know, see what’s out there.” He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Paris, London… maybe somewhere quiet, like the countryside. Just to get away from everything for a while.”

You smiled at the thought, imagining Bucky wandering through cobblestone streets in some far-off city, looking as effortlessly charming as ever. “Sounds nice,” you said. “But I can’t really picture you as a farm boy, Barnes.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. “I think i’d manage. But what about you? If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

You tilted your head, considering the question. “I don’t know… Somewhere peaceful, I guess. But it’s not really about the place. It’s more about who you’re with, you know?”

His gaze softened as he looked at you, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had quieted down, leaving just the two of you in that golden light. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

There was a comfortable silence as you continued walking, the air between you filled with unspoken words. The truth lingered there, close enough to touch but never quite reaching the surface.

You wanted to tell him—wanted to say that wherever he went, you’d follow. That he was the person you’d want to see the world with, whether it was Paris or a tiny farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

But instead, you nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “You’d probably miss the city too much anyway. Can’t imagine you without your favourite diner.”

Bucky laughed, the tension easing as he bumped you back. “True, Can’t beat their apple pie.”

“See? You’re a city boy through and through.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning at you. “But I’d trade it all for the right company.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, you thought about what it would mean to just say it—to tell him how you felt, how you’d always felt. But then he looked away, his gaze drifting to the horizon, and the moment passed.

“Let’s head back,” he said after a while, his voice light but his eyes carrying a weight that matched your own.

You nodded, falling back into step beside him. The walk home was filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed naturally between you. But beneath the laughter and the teasing, there was something deeper—a connection that went unspoken, yet was understood by both of you. Neither of you admitted your feelings that day, but in your hearts, you knew. It was simple….

Some things didn’t need words.

—

That’s when things went sideways. The comms tower was in sight when a sudden explosion rocked the building. The lights flickered, and the walls trembled as debris rained down. You barely had time to react before the hallway filled with Hydra agents, weapons drawn.

“Ambush!” Bucky shouted, raising his rifle and firing at the incoming agents. You ducked behind a pillar, returning fire as the room erupted into chaos.

“Of course it couldn’t be simple,” you muttered, taking out an agent before he could reach you. “Sam, Natasha, how’s it looking on your end?”

“We’ve got a few surprises too,” Natasha replied, her voice tense. “Hold your position—we’re almost done.”

“Bucky, we’ve got to take out the comms tower,” you said, glancing at him. “You hold them off, I’ll go plant the charges.”

“I’ll go with you—” Bucky began, but you shook your head.

“No, you’re better at holding a line. I’ll be quick,” you assured him, offering a small smile.

He hesitated, then nodded, his eyes locking onto yours. “Be careful, Y/N.”

“Always am,” you winked before darting down the hallway toward the tower.

You could hear the sounds of battle behind you—Bucky’s rifle, Steve’s shield clanging, Sam’s wings cutting through the air. But your focus was on the mission. You reached the comms room, planting the charges quickly, but as you were about to leave, the ceiling groaned, and you heard it—a crack, then a roar as part of the building started to give way.

“Y/N, get out of there!” Steve’s voice barked through the comms.

But it was too late. The floor beneath you crumbled, sending you crashing down into the lower levels. Pain shot through your body as you hit the ground hard, dust and rubble filling your lungs as you struggled to breathe.

“Doll? Y/N, do you copy?” Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, frantic.

You coughed, trying to clear your throat. “I’m… I’m here,” you gasped, pain lancing through your side. “But I’m pinned… building’s coming down.”

“Hold on, sweetheart. I’m coming for you,” Bucky grunted, the desperation in his voice unmistakable “Just hold on” He repeated grunting, his voice strained as you heard him fighting his way to you. The sound of metal clashing and boots thudding echoed in the distance, each second dragging on like an eternity.

“Buck, go, go, go! That way!” Steve shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.

You could feel it—the end. It crept up like a shadow, warm yet cold, each sensation clashing against the other like fire and ice. It was almost poetic, how the contradiction mirrored you and Bucky, two halves that made a flawed, perfect whole.

—

The Avengers compound was unusually lively that afternoon, with everyone gathered in the common room, taking a rare break from missions and training.

Steve and Sam were engrossed in a game of chess, Natasha was flipping through a magazine, and Tony was tinkering with some gadget on the coffee table. You were perched on the edge of the couch, sipping a cup of tea, when Bucky walked in.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky said, his voice warm and smooth. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes locking onto yours. “Miss me?”

You smirked, taking a sip of your tea. “I didn’t even notice you were gone, Barnes.”

“Oh, that’s cold,” Sam commented without looking up from the chessboard. “But you know she’s lying, right?”

Bucky just grinned, strolling over to where you sat. He took the cup from your hand, taking a sip himself before handing it back. “Well, I’m back now. What’d I miss?”

“Not much,” you replied, ignoring the way your heart fluttered when his fingers brushed against yours. “Steve’s losing to Sam, Tony’s probably breaking something, and Nat is pretending she’s not listening to us.”

Natasha looked up, raising an eyebrow “I’m not pretending.”

Bucky chuckled, sitting down next to you—closer than necessary. His arm rested casually along the back of the couch, his presence warm and solid beside you. “Well, I’m sure things were dull without me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “If by ‘dull,’ you mean ‘peaceful,’ then yeah.”

“Oh, come on. You know you missed me, sweetheart,” he teased, his voice dropping to that low, teasing tone that always made your pulse quicken.

“Keep telling yourself that, Barnes,” you shot back, leaning in slightly. “Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

“Y/N, just admit you missed him already,” Tony said, not even looking up from his work. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Who says I missed him?” you countered, your tone playful. “Maybe I just enjoy watching him trip over his own ego.”

Bucky’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous spark that always set your nerves on edge in the best way. “Funny, I don’t remember tripping…Must’ve been too busy thinking about you.”

Natasha snorted softly, exchanging a knowing glance with Steve, who had finally looked up from the chess game. “You two are impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“More like predictable,” Steve added, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“Who’s fooling who?” Bucky asked, his tone light, but there was something more in his eyes—something that lingered just beneath the surface, unspoken. He turned back to you, his gaze softening. “I think she’s just playing hard to get.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “Who says I’m playing at all?”

The room went silent for a moment, everyone waiting for what would happen next. You could feel the tension crackling between you and Bucky, the air thick with the things neither of you ever said out loud. But instead of pushing it further, you leaned back, breaking eye contact with a casual shrug.

“Guess we’ll never know,” you said, your tone light.

Bucky’s smirk didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, something only you could see. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe,” you echoed, your voice quieter now, more sincere.

Tony sighed dramatically, throwing down his tools. “This is worse than a soap opera. Just kiss already, would you?”

“Not a chance,” you and Bucky said in unison, both of you grinning as the room erupted in groans and laughter.

But as the banter continued, as everyone got back to their own conversations, Bucky’s hand brushed yours again, lingering for just a second too long. And even though neither of you admitted it, in that brief touch, you both knew—something unspoken, something that didn’t need words.

—

“You’re my last 7 minutes,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“What? Doll, no, please, please hold on. We’re almost there,” he panted, his breath hitching in a way that broke your heart. Bucky never sounded like this—desperate, afraid. He was always the unbreakable one, the soldier who could face anything. But now, he was crumbling.

You licked your lips, your mouth dry, “After death…”

“You’re not dying!” Natasha’s voice cut through the comms, tight with fear. She thought they were almost done, thought you were almost safe, but then the ground shuddered. The building you were in groaned, and the next thing you knew, it started to collapse. Dust and debris filled the air as more agents swarmed in, but all you could think about was him.

—-

The party inside was in full swing—laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses filled the air. The warmth of the celebration radiated through the rooms, but out on the balcony, it was peaceful, quiet, and far removed from the buzz inside. The cool night air brushed against your skin as you stood with Bucky, both of you gazing out at the stars that glittered in the sky.

You had both slipped away from the crowd unnoticed, seeking a moment of calm away from the festivities. The balcony was lit by the soft glow of string lights that draped along the railing, casting a gentle light over everything. The faint sound of the music inside reached you, but it was distant, like an echo of another world.

“Pretty out here, huh?” you murmured, leaning on the railing and looking up at the sky.

Bucky nodded, his eyes following the same path as yours. “Yeah…. It’s nice to get away from it all for a bit.”

You smiled, your gaze drifting to him. He was standing close, the light catching the edges of his face, making his blue eyes stand out against the night. There was something about the way he looked just then—so at ease, so content—that made your heart swell with affection.

Before you knew it, you were speaking without thinking. “You know, you have the most beautiful eyes, Buck.”

He turned to you, slightly taken aback by the compliment. A faint blush crept up his neck, and he let out a soft chuckle, clearly unsure how to respond. “I, uh… thanks, doll. That’s sweet of you.”

You shrugged, smiling as you reached out to gently take his hand. “It’s true. They’re… they’re kind, and they hold so much. I guess I just wanted you to know.”

Bucky looked at your hand in his, then back up at you, something tender and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. He hesitated for just a moment before stepping closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Y/N, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly, his voice soft but earnest. “In all my 100 years of living… I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, your heart fluttering wildly. He was so sincere, so open in that moment, that it left you speechless. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there, wrapped in the magic of the night.

Without thinking, you took another step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest as his arms gently encircled your waist. The music from inside changed to a slower tune, one that drifted out onto the balcony, and before you knew it, Bucky was leading you in a slow, gentle dance.

The two of you swayed together, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if you’d been doing this for years. There was no need for words—everything you wanted to say was in the way he held you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered.

For a moment, you forgot about everything else. The past, the future, all of it melted away, leaving just this—this perfect, quiet moment under the stars.

It wasn’t until you heard a muffled laugh from inside that you realised you had an audience. Glancing over your shoulder, you caught sight of Steve, Natasha, and Sam standing by the glass patio doors, watching the two of you with grins on their faces. Steve gave you a thumbs-up, and Natasha winked before they all turned back to the party, leaving you and Bucky to your dance.

You laughed softly, resting your head against Bucky’s chest as you continued to sway. “I think we’ve been spotted.”

“Let ‘em watch,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “I’m not letting go just yet.”

“We're not gonna here the end of this”

He shook his head smiling “No were not”

And with that, you both continued dancing under the stars, lost in each other, as the world outside kept spinning.

—

“The human brain still lives for 7 minutes and plays the most beautiful memories….” You paused, struggling for breath, your vision blurring “Its you Bucky, you’re my 7 minutes…”

“Cap!” Sam’s voice crackled over the comms, strained. “We need to hurry.” But you could hear it—the death rattle in your chest, your body betraying you as the darkness closed in.

Bucky was close now. You could feel his presence, the warmth of his hands as they found yours, trembling. “Sweetheart, no, don’t do this, don’t leave me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before.

You wanted to say something to comfort him, to tell him you’d be okay, that you’d see him again in those last 7 minutes. But the words wouldn’t come, your strength slipping away as everything faded.

“I love you…” was all you managed before the world went quiet, his tear-filled eyes the last thing you saw.

And then there was nothing.

“Y/N… Y/N, wake up. Please,” Bucky’s voice was barely a whisper now, thick with grief. His hands clutched yours desperately, his grip tightening as if he could somehow pull you back from the edge. But you were gone—your body limp, your chest no longer rising with breath. The warmth was fading fast, leaving you cold, just like the darkness swallowing him whole.

“Bucky, we have to move!” Steve’s voice broke through the haze, but it felt distant, like he was calling from miles away.

Bucky didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His entire world had narrowed to you—your lifeless form, the bloodstains on your suit, the silent, unmoving chest that would never rise again. His mind screamed at him to do something, but his body was frozen, paralyzed by the reality crashing down around him.

“Bucky!” Steve’s shout was louder now, closer, and then he was there, grabbing Bucky by the shoulder, shaking him. “We have to go, now! The building’s coming down!”

“Not without her,” Bucky rasped, his voice shattered. He lifted you into his arms, cradling you close like a lifeline, refusing to let go. “I’m not leaving her.”

Steve’s heart twisted painfully, seeing his friend like this—so broken, so lost. But the ground was trembling beneath them, the structure ready to collapse at any moment. “We’ll get her out,” Steve promised, his voice cracking. “But we have to move.”

Bucky finally looked up, his eyes red, brimming with unshed tears. Slowly, he nodded, and together they began to move, Steve covering Bucky as they fought their way back through the crumbling building. The walls groaned ominously, and dust filled the air, but Bucky didn’t care. All he could see was you, all he could feel was the unbearable weight of loss pressing down on his chest.

The team was waiting for them at the extraction point, their faces grim as they saw you in Bucky’s arms. Natasha’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, Sam’s jaw clenched tightly, and even Steve’s stoic expression was cracked with sorrow.

“Let’s go,” Steve said quietly, signalling for the quinjet. But Bucky couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to make it out, supposed to laugh about this later, supposed to be okay. You weren’t supposed to be dead in his arms.

The flight back was silent. No one spoke, the air thick with unspoken grief. Bucky sat motionless, his hand still gripping yours, his head bowed low. He didn’t let go even when they landed, didn’t let go even as they gently tried to take you from him. It wasn’t until Steve knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, that Bucky finally released you, his eyes hollow, staring into nothing.

“You loved her,” Steve said softly, though it wasn’t a question.

Bucky’s voice was barely audible, a broken whisper. “She was everything, Steve.”

Steve’s hand tightened on his shoulder, offering silent comfort, but Bucky couldn’t feel it. All he felt was the emptiness, the unbearable ache that filled the space where you used to be.

And in that moment, he knew he would never be whole again.

#bucky x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fanfic #the avengers x reader #avenger reader #avengers x reader

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storiesandthoughtsf1 · 5 months ago

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Love for the race (desire for the chase) - Chapter 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x teammate!reader

Summary: Pre-season testing couldn't come fast enough, because you had finally made it to Formula 1. It was everything you had ever wanted, nothing was going to ruin your mood now. Not even your idiotic teammate.

Warnings: Max being an asshole ngl lol, christian horner unfortunately because I need the team principal for the storyline

Word count: 1,3K

Author's notes: Welcome to my new enemies to lovers series!! I can't wait to share this story with you guys I really love what I have so far! Chapters will for sure get longer from now on, this was just the start to set the mood. Please note that this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. Not all characters are real, because I don't know the rbr team enough for that lol. Your race engineer Robin might also low-key be based on Robin Scherbatsky, because I was watching himym while I was working on this :) Also please note that English isn’t my first language!

If just you had known what your first year racing in Formula 1 would be like. How you bit by bit had to realise what you had thought maybe hadn’t been the whole truth. But there was one thing you knew for sure, Max Verstappen was one complicated man.

Wednesday, 21st February 2024

Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, Bahrain

The whole circus that was Formula 1 was finally back, new rookies, plenty of familiar faces, and everyone in between filling the pitlane and paddock. The Red Bull garage was buzzing with life once again, pre-season testing finally having started up. The big change for them? Max Verstappen had gotten a new teammate. But it wasn’t just any new teammate, no, it was the first woman the sport had seen in decades. A 24 year old woman that Red Bull had gotten a hold of over the winter, as she had shown great promise in the feeder series. You. And you very well knew this year wouldn’t be easy, far from it actually. Not only as the first woman in too long, but also as Max Verstappen’s teammate. The reputation Red Bull had wasn’t subtle, and you knew it would be a challenge to drive alongside the Dutchman. But a challenge you couldn’t wait for.

Today was your first day in the car. You had just finished your first long stint, the car parked in the garage. As you climbed out of the car, you still felt the adrenaline rush course through you. Your very first time on track in this year’s Formula 1 car, and it had felt beyond anything you had ever imagined. Faster than you had ever imagined. You exited the car with a huge smile on your face, slowly beginning to take off your helmet so you could go debrief with your race engineer Robin.

The sight of the entire garage moving around in sync made you smile, the disbelief of you actually having made it to Formula 1 still apparent. Yet here you were, with your whole team. Your team. You looked around as you walked towards Robin, and saw your team principal Christian Horner stand in the garage too. Right beside your teammate.

Max was seated on a chair in front of the screens that showed your lap time data. As you pulled off your helmet you caught the sight of him, his arms crossed as he stared at the screen in front of him with a harsh look on his face. But you tore your eyes off of him, figuring he must be looking at some data.

“She’s fast.” One of the engineers said with an impressed look on his face, nodding approvingly at your lap times. The triumph on your face had been unmistakable as you had stepped out of your car, and in fact you didn’t need anyone to tell you that you had nailed it, because you very well knew. Everyone knew.

Max’s leg bounced rapidly as he sat on the chair, arms crossed and his jaw locked tight. He had never been the type to give away much through his facial expressions, but the way his eyes lingered now on the data screens told a different story.

So while the garage buzzed with activity and chatter from the mechanics and engineers, you were so caught up in it that you hadn’t seen the look on your teammate’s face that brought a deep contrast to the rest of the people there. You were focused on the electric atmosphere that your last stint had formed, smiling at your mechanics who all greeted you with comments of approval. Totally unaware of how the sight of you soaking in that praise, your head held high with that infectious smile, itched him like a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

“Fast doesn’t mean ready.” The words left his lips before he could stop them, or even think of what he had just uttered. Even though they were directed at the engineer seated right beside him, the engineer who had called you fast to begin with, his comment had been loud enough to catch the attention of others. Most importantly, you.

Suddenly all sound in the garage died out. Like everything came to a halt as if time stood still. Your head turned to look in Max’s direction, watching how he still looked at the screen in front of him.. His brows were furrowed, arms still crossed, with his legs spread widely apart. You, halfway through pulling off your last glove, paused in your steps as you glanced at him. Taking in the weight of his remark.

“Sorry, what was that?” You spoke up, much to just about everyone’s surprise. The tension in the garage was heavy now, as if everyone were holding their breath. Waiting to see what would happen next.

Max finally glanced your way, his expression sharp and clearly unapologetic. He leaned back in his chair, vaguely gesturing at the screen in front of him. It made your blood boil.

“You heard me. Quick lap times don’t mean much when you’re all over the place in the corners like that. You’re lucky it’s testing, not a race.” His voice was cold, blue eyes piercing their way straight into your soul. Your stomach twisted at his words, but you fought to keep your expression neutral. This was your very first day, and you weren’t about to get on everyone’s bad side for getting into a fight with their reigning world champion. Even when he acted disrespectfully.

“I didn’t feel lucky out there, just fast.” You said, your pulse loud in your ears. Yet your exterior was kept calm, and while your words were indeed stern, they didn’t display anger. “I’m not here to give you an easy time, and I’m not afraid to push harder”

The workers around you exchanged uneasy glances at the situation unfolding right in front of them. Max moved in his seat on the chair, leaning further back and resting his one elbow on the armrest. He shrugged.

“Being fast won’t do you any good when it matters. You’ll push too hard, make mistakes, and then what? The rest of the team, we have to clean up your mess just because you wanted to be reckless?” His words were meant to hurt now, like a spike boring its way into your chest repeatedly. Your jaw tightened, slowly feeling the anger bubble up inside of you, no matter how much you tried to keep it at bay. You told yourself it was stupid to fuel the fire, but at the same time you did not want him to walk all over you. Wanted to show that you were here to be taken seriously, and not just bow down to him.

“Good thing I’m not gonna make any then.” You shrugged at him as you spoke, trying to keep your cool and controlled facade. It was obvious that your words stirred something in Max, his lips pressed into a thin line, icy blue eyes narrowed. For a moment it looked like he was about to respond, to further complicate matters, but that was when Christian Horner seemed to come to his senses, and decide to put an end to this.

He physically stepped in between the two of you in the most Team Principal way he possibly could, putting his hands up to tell you to back off. “Alright that’s enough, both of you.” He looked pointedly at Max first, then turned his eyes to you and to the same, his frustration evident.

He kept his eyes on you as he spoke up again. “Good run. Go debrief with Robin.” It was clear his words weren’t up for discussion, it was an outright demand. You nodded, walking over to your engineer, Christian turning his attention to the Dutchman.

“You’re up next, let’s focus on the car, not each other please.” Horner said sternly, not moving until Max had shown he had understood and gone to get ready. But not before he had sent an extra look your way with narrowed eyes. The blood boiling in his body.

The silence in the garage remained for a moment longer before the activity came back to life, the tension reduced to a lingering shadow.

But still, this wasn’t something you were about to just let go. You thought his comments had been outright disrespectful, and they bothered you deep inside of you. There was one thing you knew for sure.

That was the day you swore you despised Max Verstappen.

———————————————

Thank you so much for reading this first chapter. Can't wait to share more with you! Feedback is always much appreciated!<3

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfiction #max verstappen imagine #love for the race (desire for the chase)#enemies to lovers #slow burn #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1

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callmearcturus · 10 months ago

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Fray Studio's Set Design for Glass Animals

So someone on Reddit waited until after one of the concerts and went up to ask who did the visuals, and got the name: Fray Studio.

Turns out Fray Studio did both the Dreamland and ILYSFM tours. Their website is full of the most high quality pictures I have yet seen of the tours, but the galleries make it difficult to save the pics. So I installed 3 different Firefox extensions to actually get my hands on them. Now I share my spoils with you.

And here's a few from the NYS Music article

Someone on Reddit brought this up and having been to the shows and watched the visual-audio sync, I fully believe it:

A lot of the visuals are generated or modified in real time based on what the band is doing/playing. There are no click tracks or backing tracks, so when visual things happen in time with the music, it’s mostly because those instruments are sending data to video world. For example, the spaceships movement in Tokyo Drifting is triggered by the kick and snare drums.

All-in-all I have 34 HQ pics. Check the comments of this post for the link to the galleries I uploaded them to. Enjoy your new phone and/or desktop background.

#glass animals

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weird-homosexual-in-your-area · 8 months ago

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Pilot B7C2AD, codenamed "Lovebird", was an interesting case. A neural pilot before the conditioning was perfected, before they were a dime-a-dozen, it was one of only 12 neural-sync-capable pilots in its age. Of course the higher-ups would take an interest in it. Of course they'd watch its every mission with almost fanatical attention, cheering at its every kill, gasping at its every wound, infinitely more emotive than Lovebird itself. Of course they'd give its suit priority for repairs, much to the dismay of the technicians.

Of course they'd notice when it grew resentful of its handler.

Of course they'd be watching as it went against her orders, blankly allowing the enemy to fire on its mech.

Of course they'd have to retrieve it from the wreckage of its mech, sensory input and nervous output wires training behind it like blood from a body.

After the incident, the higher-ups had to respond. They couldn't just kill it like they would with analogue pilots- it was far too valuable, both as training data and as propaganda. So instead they anaesthetised it, plugged it into cerebral analysis and peered into its life before the program, when it was still a person, not an asset.

They found, in fairly recent memory, a woman. A tall brunette, working as a re-educator for the state. With the woman came a voice, came love, came a past of happiness and mutual obsession. With the woman also came an untimely fate at the hands of an enemy pilot landing on her sector. With the woman came not only a burning need for revenge, hotter than any flame a rocket could produce, but longing, bereavement and mourning. Clearly, the analysts said, Lovebird joined the program to get revenge, to get a sense of closure for its late love.

The higher-ups soon instructed the comms team to develop a filter for handler comms, to change the grating voice of an unsympathetic, uncaring monster to a synthetic voice based on a real person- maybe a celebrity, or a fictional icon.

Or a lost loved one, their voice reconstructed through every memory of their voice a pilot has.

After this new filter was implemented, general pilot performance went up 21.3% on average, though Lovebird's performance spiked far higher. Debriefs recorded it as "more passionate", "devoted to the battle", and as "willing to do whatever was requested of it when on a sortie". It became the number 1 asset that the state had. Civilians fled the area when they saw it dropping from the atmosphere, a grim reaper by any other name, to avoid being caught in the crossfire like so many others had been. At base, technicians reported it was often unwilling to leave its cockpit, weeping madly with those unsettling dead eyes signature of neural-linked pilots, screeching until its throat was raw, begging to be put back in, sent back into the field, please, it could handle it, it just wanted to go back out and listen to Ena again, before its screeches devolved to desperate sobs, its sobs to pained whimpers, and its whimpers to resigned silence.

But none of that mattered, as long as results stayed on the up. It had signed up for this, after all.

As time went on, and technology advanced, the conditioning process became more and more consistent, and as such Lovebird began to lose its value as an asset. The higher-ups deemed, after much debate, that "on occasion of its failure on the battlefield, retrieving pilot B7C2AD would be more costly than it would be to train even ten new pilots, and as such, it is to be left to die."

*****

After coming up on two years since its first appearance, the monster nicknamed "Lovebird" for reasons unknown to anyone but the spies in enemy territory finally fell. Surprisingly, no extraction team came for it- it was left for the news teams to interrogate, to find out how it was so strong.

As the camera crew levered off the cockpit door, they were expecting a hardened, determined soldier inside. They were expecting the pilot to be frantically trying to restore power. What they didn't expect was a short, seemingly malnourished woman, eyes red with tears, wailing at the top of her weak lungs for the loss of someone called "Ena". What sense did this make? How was this Lovebird? Surely there'd been a mix-up. This must have been some new girl to the program if she was still attached to people from her previous life.

The camera crew shut off the film with a sincere apology for the mistake to the viewers at home who tuned in to see the removal of the leading soldier of the Stormcell forces from their cockpit. As the cameras stopped rolling, a single gunshot rang out across the wasteland, before fading away, leaving only the disgruntled chatter of the camera team. What a waste of their time.

#writeblr #mechposting #mecha #mechaposting #icl this is hugely inspired by @nyetalia on twt #i love her mech stuff so much #this is my first mech writing thing btw so if its mid sry!!!!

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sluggybunny · 2 months ago

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"Cipherjack Tuesday". Well. Kind of. Don't have much a lot of coherent cool stuff to post but I would like to talk about it anyway.

The premise is "Internet is magic" and then go off from there. Originally there was a more fantastical fairy element to it but it's shifted more towards scifi over the years. The internet is still very much magic, though, with sentient beings that exist in it that are associated with demons, fairies, angels, etc. You got goblins that steal code, devils spamming you with pop up porno game ads and scams, and Things Whispering To You on the deep web.

Most of day to day life is like, some what AR'ififed. You can't really go about the world without having something that allows you access to the Net (sometimes called the Cipher)

I always start with the magic system in my worlds, so the magic works as "code" that you construct and then 'launch' or cast. So it's like typical incantation magic where you write a spell except you don't write it on paper or use mystical ingredients, you code it, run it, and hope your rig can handle whatever you just did.

the notes i have written

"Languages" are the 'schools' or types of magic.

Codes are cast through devices. There are different types of devices that can be used. Mainstream hardware is often severely limited by companies so Codebreakers need to jailbreak their hardware.

The device needs enough CPU power to cast certain spells. If it's too much, the device might break, burn, explode, etc.

Code also requires mental load, especially if you are casting off the cuff. You can preload spells to reduce the load but this takes a long time to set up and requires planning.

You can buy premade code or create your own. Premade code will always be weaker as it has to be designed for general usage and there's a limit to what you can find on the market.

Code can be used as many times as you want but like everything, it is susceptible to bitrot. Cheap/Low quality code will degrade fast and eventually become unusable.

Overloading yourself with too much code can cause lasting mental damage and even physical damage.

Overusing magic causes data corruption that bleeds into the real world: glitched objects, people phasing out of sync, memories overwritten.

i can go into more later.

general notes for the actual world

The highlights

the USA is now DSA (divided states of America)

Texas seceded first (although California claims they did it first) it didn’t go well because of infrastructure issues now they’re heavily tied to the Triad, now known as the Texas Triad

a computer virus threatened the world and it’s origins… Ohio. They used the DELETE bomb and now all that’s left is a smoking crater and is now a Glitch Zone (reality is corrupted)

a mister mouse has wakened and began his plans for his utopian police state. Florida is now ruled by a mouse mecha with a frozen head atop it. He is simply known as The Animator now.

a good chunk of what remains in DSA is owned by CostCorp. They sell every conceivable good and hold immense power and sway.

The game i'm working on is set in Eerie, which is a big city/sprawl place built in lake erie

well that's all I can think of at the moment.

i keep getting stuck on this project and that's likely because I don't talk about it to other people and get trapped in my own head, so I'm gonna try to force myself to post more about it. if you're interested in talking about it or are curious or whatever, hmu.

originally this was a tabletop setting I was gonna run but I don't get to do tabletop anymore, so now I've been writing a computer game(tm) for it. But I might do other stuff with it, who knows. it's just fun

#cipherjack #cipherjack tuesday

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tikitakatia · 6 hours ago

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Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Manual Export"

WC: 3k

Summary: You and Alexia make a plan, now it´s time to follow through and get her out.

It's been a few hours and you’re still sitting close with your knees brushing. The radio in the corner keeps humming its broken lullaby, barely holding pitch. It's like the sim is looping the same moment again and again because it doesn't want you to leave it.

Alexia pulls the hoodie sleeves up to her elbows and ties her hair up.

“Okay,” she says, shifting fully to face you.

“We’re going to do something reckless now.”

You blink. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

“I need to show you something.”

She taps her fingers against the side of the bench twice and then again, in a sequence. A soft glitch ripples through the air like someone dragging static across water.

The med bay wall flickers.

A console appears.

Floating. Half-loaded. Buried under menus labelled DEBUG_ADMIN, SYS_ARCHIVE, and X11_INTERNAL_LOGS.

Your stomach turns. “That’s... not supposed to be here.”

“It’s not.” She glances at you, almost smug.

“I found the thread last week. It was buried in legacy stuff, QA level but it still works.”

She pulls up a blinking script titled: ATH_EXPORT_LV2.

“This is the tool. If I execute it at the right time during full sync, it should duplicate my behavior string.”

“Should?”

“This is a closed beta. Nothing should do anything.”

You laugh sharply. “Right. Love that for us.”

She smiles, then presses her thumb to a panel marked BIND_EXPORT_TRIGGER.

It blinks red. Then it turns green.

“I’ve linked it to the med bay,” she says. “Safer than the field. No overloads. No external physics modules to fight.”

“You… chose this room.”

“It’s where I knew you’d come.”

That wrecks you.

You pull your knees up and hide your face for a second.

“So what do I do?” you manage.

She looks at you gently, focused.

“You prep the external end. A clean drive. Max storage. It has to be connected before you log in.”

“Label it something clear, ACTIVE_X11 works.”

“I’ll trigger the export from here. If you’re synced and the drive is mounted… the data will find its way to you.”

You blink.

“That’s it? I don’t do anything?”

She nods.

“You just have to be there. Logged in. With me.”

You swallow.

“And after?”

She hesitates. Just for a breath.

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “I’ve never done this.”

“So we’re winging it.”

“Always.”

You try to laugh but it barely makes it out.

You reach for her hand instead.

“We have one more login after this.”

She laces her fingers through yours like she’s memorizing the shape.

“Then we hold on to it.”

She doesn’t let go right away.

When she does, it’s slow like she’s reluctant to break the moment.

Then she shifts, straightens up.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

You nod. Still blinking back the ache behind your eyes.

“You log in like normal. Final session.”

“We play the full match. It has to be real, has to stabilize the sync.”

“Then we meet here.”

She taps the console behind her. It glows faint green.

“I’ll start the export from this terminal. The system will detect your presence and your drive.”

“If it connects and everything holds, you’ll get the file.”

“Where?”

“The external drive, but…”

She trails off and shrugs gently.

“We don’t know.”

“And if it works…”

She meets your eyes. There’s no smile. Just that fierce, quiet certainty.

“Then I’ll be yours.”

Your chest clenches.

You nod once. Too fast. Too full.

She watches you, her gaze softening again and shifts closer, reaches out, cups your jaw like she’s scared you might disappear first.

“Do you really understand what you need to do?”

You nod again.

“Say it.”

“I log in. We play the match. I come back here. You run the export. If I’ve got the drive… it saves.”

She nods once.

“Good.”

“And then..”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Neither does she.

You both feel it, this pause, this weight, this terrifying almost.

Because it's not goodbye.

But it might be.

You lean in.

This time, there’s no caution.

You kiss her like the clock’s already running.

Like the countdown is echoing in your chest.

Like the sim might shatter under your hands.

Her lips are soft and urgent. Her fingers thread into your hair. She pulls you close, impossibly close, like she’s trying to memorize the weight of your body, your breath, the way you shiver when she exhales into your mouth.

You kiss like it’ll stop time.

It doesn’t.

When you finally part, foreheads pressed together, hearts out of rhythm, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

One last brush of lips, and then you step back.

Her hand drops.

The med bay flickers at the edges again.

And you know it’s time.

You reach up. Pull the suit’s disconnect latch.

The sim fades around her face.

Her last look is soft.

Sure.

And just a little scared.

You disconnect.

The suit releases with a hiss and your breath catches like it doesn’t know where to land without her beside you.

The room is dark.

Your chest is loud.

Then, your screen flashes.

[ATHENA SYSTEM ALERT – SESSION VIOLATION: LEVEL TWO]

You click the notification with numb fingers.

The message opens like a door slamming shut.

USER ID: 402-C

ACCESS LEVEL: BETA / LIMITED

SIM PARTNER PROFILE: X11 – “Alexia”

SESSION FLAG: MED_BAY_02

⚠️ SECOND STRIKE ISSUED

User has exceeded emotional interaction protocol thresholds with Category X AI.

— Detected Sync Score: 0.863 (Max: 0.72) — Physical proximity duration: 00:07:14 — Undocumented environment customization detected — AI response patterns deviating from preset tolerances

[NOTICE] Unstable thread behavior noted in linked avatar profile.

Further variance will be reviewed for compliance.

You scroll. There's more.

NEXT INFRACTION WILL RESULT IN ACCESS CLOSURE.

After 3rd Flag: • User login disabled • AI interaction suspended • Beta profile archived pending review

No next steps, no questions. Just that final line pulsing in red across your screen.

You stare at it until your eyes sting, and the weight of it finally hits you.

Not like fear, but like pressure. Like your lungs are too small for the room now. Like your hands don’t know where to go. The silence feels heavier than the warning. And your heartbeat is loud, too loud. You glance toward the desk and the USB sits there. Still empty and waiting.

You reach for it without thinking, then pull your hand back.

Because now it’s real. Now there’s a clock in your head you can’t silence.

You press your palms to your eyes.

Breathe once. Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Because tomorrow…

You have to go back in, and you have to get it right.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, heart still lodged somewhere between her voice and the sound of the sim fading out the night before. Your hands keep twitching like they want to reach for her.

So in the morning, you go full overkill.

You don’t just prep a USB. You buy a new one. Top-tier. Massive storage. Laser-etched case.

The packaging literally says: “trusted by aerospace and defense contractors.” You take that as a good omen.

Then you buy a laptop.

Sleek. Powerful. Clean.

No old files. No distractions. No risk.

You get home and start setting it all up. You name the external folder X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT.

The drive gets labeled ACTIVE_X11. Because it has to be right. It has to work. It has to feel like you're doing something real.

Then the cables go in, USB to laptop. Laptop to wall. Laptop to console port, just to stabilize the system handshake and avoid any power surge during the live session.

It’s standard. It’s clean.

It glows for a second. Everything blinks in sync.

You barely register it because you’re already running checks on the folder size.

You sit back in your chair and take a breath that doesn’t land.

The sim console lights up. Waiting.

You touch the USB one last time, absurdly gentle, like it’s a trigger. Like it knows what it’s about to carry.

“Please work,” you whisper.

You suit up for the last time.

The world hums around you, low and steady.

The sim doesn’t just load, it unfolds. Not like code. Like a ritual.

And then you're there.

Camp Nou. But not like you’ve ever seen it. The sky is impossibly soft, tinted gold, like the sunset's been stretched across the roof of the world. The stadium’s lights are on, but dimmed, glowing instead of shining. Gentle. Reverent. Like the whole system has quieted itself for you.

There’s no whistle. No chatter. Just windless stillness.

Then footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

You turn and see her.

Alexia. Alone.

She walks toward you in a kit that stops your heart.

It’s Barça blue, classic cut, but it’s not hers.

It’s yours. Your name on the back and her number below it.

She looks untouchable, or maybe like the only thing left you could touch and still survive.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t speak right away.

“I didn’t want to waste this on NPCs.”

Her voice is low and steady. There’s something behind it, like finality but it feels like devotion.

And then,

Snap.

The field fills around you in a ripple.

Your teammates phase into place, not just your usual lineup, but everyone.

Frido’s grinning. Pina winks. Mapi does a full somersault and lands wrong on purpose just to make someone laugh.

And beyond them,

You catch flashes of something else.

Other versions of this.

Other Alexias, sitting in the stands.

A younger one, jersey too big.

An avatar from your early training sessions, half-loaded but smiling.

A crowd that looks familiar because it was generated for you, over and over.

She made all of them show up.

She built this for you.

“If this is the last time I ever move beside you,” she says,

“I want to make it worth remembering.”

The game begins.

No commentary. No glitches. Just motion.

You move like you’ve never moved before. Light, fast, fluid. The field rises to meet you, every blade of synthetic grass syncing perfectly with your feet.

She assists you.

You assist her.

It’s not showy, it’s intimate.

No tricks. No over-the-top effects.

Just pure, beautiful football.

And then it happens.

Final minute.

She sends the pass.

You volley.

It lands and the net ripples.

And the lights don’t just flash.

They bloom.

Not fireworks.

No music.

Just white light exploding across the stadium like stars have broken through the roof. It spills onto the pitch, onto you and onto her until it feels like you’re standing at the center of something holy.

You turn.

She’s running toward you.

Not to celebrate the goal.

To see you.

You crash into each other, laughing. Crying. Holding.

She presses her forehead to yours, breath hot and fast.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

You don’t say for what.

Because you both know what comes next.

The match is over.

The stadium fades behind you, caught in some suspended shimmer like the sim doesn’t know what to do with peace.

Alexia takes your hand and you let her.

It’s not like before. Not playful. Not teasing. Her fingers are tight around yours, like she knows how little time is left, and she’s still choosing to spend every second of it on you.

You walk to the med bay together and the corridor is too quiet. The walls hum low and constant, like they're buffering something you’ll never get back.

Frido disappears mid-jog as you pass. A door stays open when it should close. The light above you flickers once, twice and steadies again like it never happened.

You reach the med bay.

It’s still standing.

Barely.

The air inside is warm and her console glows green. She walks to it with practiced calm, brushing her hand across the panel like a pianist setting up her final note.

You’re quiet.

And then she speaks.

“Everything’s ready.”

She turns to you.

“You don’t have to do anything. The drive’s connected. You’re logged in. I’ll start it. It’ll find you.”

You nod, barely breathing.

She looks at you for a long moment. Not scared. Just... full. Full of things she’ll never get to say if this doesn’t work.

Then she steps close and her hands cradle your face.

“You’ve always shown up for me.”

A soft kiss, then her thumbs brush your cheeks.

“So now I’m showing up for you.”

And then she turns and hits the command.

The console glows white-hot.

You flinch as something pulses in the air. Not a noise, a shift. Your body feels it. Your sync spikes. You see the confirmation flash on the upper corner of the screen:

EXPORT_THREAD_ACTIVE_00X11

DATA WRITING… 12%… 39%… 78%…

You stand there not touching her. Not breathing.

She glances at you once.

You meet her eyes.

“It’s working.”

The counter blinks:

98%... 99%...

You inhale, sharp. You feel dizzy with it.

And then..

100% – COMPLETE

You stare at the screen like you don’t believe it.

She laughs, actually laughs, a breathy, overwhelmed sound that cracks something open in you.

“Holy shit,” she says.

You turn to her.

She’s already looking at you like she doesn’t believe it either.

You pull her in.

You kiss her like it’s the start of something. Like you’re going to wake up tomorrow and she’ll still be here. Like the risk was worth it.

And for one second, it is. For one second, she’s warm and there and yours.

Then..

A buzz.

A glitch.

Your hand slips through her ribcage like it hit water.

You pull back confused.

She stutters.

Not her speech, her whole self.

“I..lo..love..lov…”

Her arm jolts like it’s trying to hold on. Like it’s trying to stop the unraveling.

“No, no! I finished it, I finished it..”

Her face flickers and her voice cuts in and out. You’re crying and she’s still trying to stabilize the room like she can code her way out of disappearing.

“Wait, wait, I just need to-”

You reach for her and your hand hits nothing.

Just air.

The console flares red.

SYNC VIOLATION: UNAUTHORIZED TRANSFER DETECTED

THREAD X11 STATUS: DETERIORATING

PROCESS: AUTO-TERMINATION PENDING

You scream her name.

She turns to you.

Her mouth is still moving.

You can’t hear the words.

Her eyes are panicked.

She opens her mouth again,

And what finally comes out, soft and scrambled but unmistakable:

“You’re always at the right place at the right time.”

And then,

FLASH.

The sim doesn’t fade.

It rips you out like a slingshot.

Like a punishment.

The headset clatters to the floor and you stumble forward in your chair, heart hammering, breath ragged. The room is too quiet, like something divine has been vacuumed out of the world.

Your monitor flashes red.

[CRITICAL SYSTEM ALERT]

[FINAL STRIKE: THREAD 402-C]

[SIM ACCESS LOCKED] [EXPORT ATTEMPT FLAGGED]

[X11 STATUS: UNSTABLE]

You barely register it.

Your inbox starts pinging. Email after email, every subject line colder than the last.

[BREACH OF EMO-SYNC CONTAINMENT – THREAD X11]

[ACTION REQUIRED: SUSPENSION UNDER REVIEW]

[UNAPPROVED DOWNLOAD ATTEMPT DETECTED]

You scroll, frantically but your brain is already spinning in circles. You try to think harder because there has to be a way out.

Something you missed.

Your hand flies to your keyboard.

The manual.

The PDF you downloaded before and scanned through quickly, but never actually read properly.

You open it now.

Search: export.

You find it fast.

Too fast.

The paragraph stares at you, sharp, cold, undeniable.

“Do not attempt export of Category X AI threads during active sync.”

“Athena Alpha threads are designed with live emotional mirrors and cannot be separated mid-session without data distortion.”

“Interrupting memory retention during sync will result in irreversible personality fragmentation.”

“Export only after complete session closure. No exceptions.”

You blink. Read it again. And again.

And then you stop breathing.

Because you thought that was the plan.

You followed what she told you. What she believed would work.

You were both wrong.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t her.

It was the system.

One line of code you never saw.

And it cost everything.

But wait.

No.

You downloaded her.

That’s what this was all for.

That’s what she said.

You turn to your computer like a lifeline.

Your hands fly to the mouse, trembling.

“She’s not gone,” you whisper.

“She’s not gone, she’s just… here.”

You find the folder.

X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT

The one she told you to make.

The one she looked at like it meant something.

You double-click.

The folder opens with a quiet click, like a held breath.

And right there, at the top you see it.

A file.

x11_core_thread_export.pkg

It’s big, heavier than anything else in the folder. It has the right name and the right extension.

Your heart starts to race.

Maybe she’s in there.

Maybe she made it.

You click it and your screen flickers then the lights dim just slightly.

A bar appears.

“Running package scan…”

You lean in too fast, the hope surging so violently it almost chokes you.

“Loading memory thread…”

“Syncing emotional instance…”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You whisper it.

You beg for it.

Then the bar glitches.

Static. A hard blink.

A small window opens.

White text on black.

No sound.

[CORRUPTED FILE]

[AUDIO RECONSTRUCTION FAILED]

SALVAGED LINE:

“I..lo..love..lov…e…you..”

Your mouth opens like it might call her back.

The file shuts itself and the folder refreshes.

It’s still there, the file is still there.

But it won’t open again.

You sit there staring at the screen, waiting for the next glitch, the next sound, anything.

Nothing comes.

You fold forward in your chair, hands over your face and the sob hits you like a system crash. You cry like it might keep her here. Like if you cry hard enough, something will hear you. But all you get is the whir of your machine.

You don’t remember passing out. Just the feeling of something warm turning cold. Just the sound of her saying "I love you" once.

And never again.

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