#scroll wheel controller

[wirewitchviolet]

Hell is terms like ASIC, FPGA, and PPU

I haven't been doing any public updates on this for a bit, but I am still working on this bizarre rabbit hole quest of designing my own (probably) 16-bit game console. The controller is maybe done now, on a design level. Like I have parts for everything sourced and a layout for the internal PCB. I don't have a fully tested working prototype yet because I am in the middle of a huge financial crisis and don't have the cash laying around to send out to have boards printed and start rapidly iterating design on the 3D printed bits (housing the scroll wheel is going to be a little tricky). I should really spend my creative energy focusing on software development for a nice little demo ROM (or like, short term projects to earn money I desperately need) but my brain's kinda stuck in circuitry gear so I'm thinking more about what's going into the actual console itself. This may get techie.

So... in the broadest sense, and I think I've mentioned this before, I want to make this a 16-bit system (which is a term with a pretty murky definition), maybe 32-bit? And since I'm going to all this trouble I want to give my project here a little something extra the consoles from that era didn't have. And at the same time, I'd like to be able to act as a bridge for the sort of weirdos who are currently actively making new games for those systems to start working on this, on a level of "if you would do this on this console with this code, here's how you would do it on mine." This makes for a hell of a lot of research on my end, but trust me, it gets worse!

So let's talk about the main strengths of the 2D game consoles everyone knows and loves. Oh and just now while looking for some visual aids maybe I stumbled across this site, which is actually great as a sort of mid-level overview of all this stuff. Short version though-

The SNES (or Super Famicom) does what it does by way of a combination of really going all in on direct memory access, and particularly having a dedicated setup for doing so between scanlines, coupled with a bunch of dedicated graphical modes specialized for different use cases, and you know, that you can switch between partway through drawing a screen. And of course the feature everyone knows and loves where you can have one polygon and do all sorts of fun things with it.

The Genesis (or Megadrive) has an actual proper 16-bit processor instead of this weird upgraded 6502 like the SNES had for a scrapped backwards compatibility plan. It also had this frankly wacky design where they just kinda took the guts out of a Sega Master System and had them off to the side as a segregated system whose only real job is managing the sound chip, one of those good good Yamaha synths with that real distinct sound... oh and they also actually did have a backwards compatibility deal that just kinda used the audio side to emulate an SMS, basically.

The TurboGrafix-16 (or PC Engine) really just kinda went all-in on making its own custom CPU from scratch which...we'll get to that, and otherwise uh... it had some interesting stuff going on sound wise? I feel like the main thing it had going was getting in on CDs early but I'm not messing with optical drives and they're no longer a really great storage option anyway.

Then there's the Neo Geo... where what's going on under the good is just kind of A LOT. I don't have the same handy analysis ready to go on this one, but my understanding is it didn't really go in for a lot of nice streamlining tricks and just kinda powered through. Like it has no separation of background layers and sprites. It's just all sprites. Shove those raw numbers.

So what's the best of all worlds option here? I'd like to go with one of them nice speedy Motorolla processors. The 68000 the Genesis used is no longer manufactured though. The closest still-in-production equivalent would be the 68SEC000 family. Seems like they go for about $15 a pop, have a full 32-bit bus, low voltage, some support clock speeds like... three times what the Genesis did. It's overkill, but should remove any concerns I have about having a way higher resolution than the systems I'm jumping off from. I can also easily throw in some beefy RAM chips where I need.

I was also planning to just directly replicate the Genesis sound setup, weird as it is, but hit the slight hiccup that the Z80 was JUST discontinued, like a month or two ago. Pretty sure someone already has a clone of it, might use that.

Here's where everything comes to a screeching halt though. While the makers of all these systems were making contracts for custom processors to add a couple extra features in that I should be able to work around by just using newer descendant chips that have that built in, there really just is no off the shelf PPU that I'm aware of. EVERYONE back in the day had some custom ASIC (application-specific integrated circuit) chip made to assemble every frame of video before throwing it at the TV. Especially the SNES, with all its modes changing the logic there and the HDMA getting all up in those mode 7 effects. Which are again, something I definitely want to replicate here.

So one option here is... I design and order my own ASIC chips. I can probably just fit the entire system in one even? This however comes with two big problems. It's pricy. Real pricy. Don't think it's really practical if I'm not ordering in bulk and this is a project I assume has a really niche audience. Also, I mean, if I'm custom ordering a chip, I can't really rationalize having stuff I could cram in there for free sitting outside as separate costly chips, and hell, if it's all gonna be in one package I'm no longer making this an educational electronics kit/console, so I may as well just emulate the whole thing on like a raspberry pi for a tenth of the cost or something.

The other option is... I commit to even more work, and find a way to reverse engineer all the functionality I want out with some big array of custom ROMs and placeholder RAM and just kinda have my own multi-chip homebrew co-processors? Still PROBABLY cheaper than the ASIC solution and I guess not really making more research work for myself. It's just going to make for a bigger/more crowded motherboard or something.

Oh and I'm now looking at a 5V processor and making controllers compatible with a 10V system so I need to double check that all the components in those don't really care that much and maybe adjust things.

And then there's also FPGAs (field programmable gate arrays). Even more expensive than an ASIC, but the advantage is it's sort of a chip emulator and you can reflash it with something else. So if you're specifically in the MiSTer scene, I just host a file somewhere and you make the one you already have pretend to be this system. So... good news for those people but I still need to actually build something here.

So... yeah that's where all this stands right now. I admit I'm in way way over my head, but I should get somewhere eventually?

[jackest-jack]

Pros and cons of ultrakilling with an xbox controller

Pros:

Very very hard to fat finger your way into dying

first game ive played where turning your sensitivity All The Way Up is a boon

I like that the shoot button is a trigger. it just makes sense

Movement tech is easier since the dash and the slide are not Right Next To Each Other

Cons:

Fuck you if you want to switch arms and look around, unless you have Lightning Thumbs

also fuck you if you enjoy railcoins and nukes

basically if you need to switch weapons with any amount of speed and they're not RIGHT next to eachother youre boned

also whiplash is signifigantly more difficult (you press the right button and the left button at the same time, so you cant shoot while you whiplash)

[insomnova]

the third game in the jfo series should let us swap lightsaber stances any time we want. why the heck can't i switch it up on the fly i ask of u!!!

[racke7]

Huh.

So, because I don't have Divinity 2 right now, I decided to look through my game-catalog. And I have Monster Hunter World on this thing.

Last time I played this was the first time I played this (years ago), I played it for almost eight hours straight, and I'm pretty sure I spent 90% of that time cursing and yelling at the game because fuck your stupid fucking run-away mechanics. Stand and fight like a proper fucking monster.

But hey, I like being a little hater sometimes. Let's see-...

Okay, so after another 40min of gameplay, I can safely say that:

Monster Hunter is a game for people who really like the combat-mechanics of Bloodborne's Micolash-fight, but who'd really prefer the actual fighting-parts to be the Amygdala-fight instead.

That is to say, not fucking me.

[noosayog]

haikyuu boys and their number one princess <3

ft. iwaizumi, suna, and osamu

--

Iwaizumi 

“Are you still mad?” 

You fold your arms over your chest harder, cross your legs tighter, and crane your neck further, only letting out a loud and dramatic exhale in answer to his question. 

Iwaizumi says nothing else, but takes one hand off the steering wheel to offer it up to you. 

When you leave his hand hanging, his fingers wiggle towards you in a “come here” motion. You put a closed fist into his hand. 

Your boyfriend says nothing but at the next red light, he pries your fist open and twines his fingers through yours. Then, he uses his other hand to force your now spread fingers tightly closed around his. 

“There,” you hear him huff quietly to himself. 

You’re really no longer mad, just feeling a bit petty but he doesn’t need to know that. 

Suna

You can’t believe him. The nerve of his diva ass to leave the house after the argument he picked. It takes a hot shower, a face mask, and a good nap to just get your frustration under control and that’s when your phone finally rings. 

“What?” you answer brutishly. Eye for an eye. 

Rintaro’s quiet on the other line. 

“Well, are you gonna say anything?” 

He sighs and you’re this close to hanging out and taking another shower. “I bought the toilet paper.” 

“Oh, great. Want me to compliment you? Thank you for doing the bare minimum-” 

“You know…” he cuts you off. “It was your turn to buy the toilet paper.” 

“No, it wasn’t. You always have the first and third weeks of the month today’s…” you trail off once you glance at the calendar. 

He sighs again. “Anyway, I’m coming home soon. Bye, babe.” 

He hangs up before you can respond. 

Okay, so what if he was right and you were wrong. Why would he hang up on you like that? He’s such a petty jackass-

Your phone lights up with a text. 

Do you want your coffee or are you still feeling like a bitch?

Osamu 

Osamu’s already laying in bed, scrolling on his phone, when you finish brushing your teeth. With every intention to show him how mad at him you still are, you plop angrily onto your side of the shared mattress and curl up with your back to him. You give him one pointed glare before turning back over, flipping the covers over yourself so aggressively, it pulls them right off of Osamu. 

Your boyfriend says nothing, bless his soul, before sliding towards you and putting an arm over you in an attempt to spoon. You throw his arm off, inching even further away. 

You hear him exhale one deep and painful breath before he yanks your phone out of your hand and manhandles you so that you’re laying in the middle of the bed on your back. 

“What’s your- oof” 

He rests his entire body on top of you, forcing your limbs to starfish out to accommodate his weight. Then, he continues to scroll on his phone with you under him. 

“Get off!” 

“Not ‘til you get rid of that attitude.”

You shove at his stomach but he doesn’t budge, happy to crush you to sleep. 

It takes monumental effort to bite back a smile when he asks you, “all done?”

“No,” you say petulantly. 

“Good. I can do this all night.”

[eightglass]

What laptop manufacturers think people want:

What people actually want:

Seriously!

Like, what happened to 4:3? Websites and word processors work with VERTICAL SCROLLING. That means we want more VERTICAL SPACE.

What happened to buttons on the trackpad? The smooth square is bullshit. Bring back buttons. Also there should be a scroll wheel beside the trackpad.

Why are laptops so thin nowadays? Where's the sturdiness? Where's the space to put things?

What happened to the io? I WANT MORE USB. I should not have to buy an adapter to have enough USB ports.

Disc drives! SD card readers! Why did they leave?? Put them back.

And easily removable batteries!! That should be common again!! If the battery stops carrying enough charge, anyone should be able to replace it easily.

Also, like, why are laptop speakers consistently so ass? Make them good!

Keyboards should have more buttons! Un-merge the function keys and the, like, volume and brightness control keys. More buttons more better.

Why is there usually only a power button? Put a sleep button next to it!!

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Stuck With You

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader TW: panic attack, mention of past panic attacks Genre: pre-relationship, comfort, fluff, slow-burn

Word Count: ~4.2k

Summary: You hate heights, Lando suggests to go on a Ferris wheel.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You’ve been afraid of heights your whole life.

Not the “ooh I feel tingly on a tall building” kind. The real kind. The kind that takes your breath away—not in the poetic way, but the terrifying, can’t-get-air-in kind.

You’ve hated it since you were little. Since that day on the mall’s glass staircase, when your knees locked up halfway up and your mom had to carry you the rest of the way while strangers whispered.

And you’ve been good at avoiding it since. Until now.

Until him.

Lando.

Who asked, with that careless sparkle in his eyes, “Wanna hit the fair this weekend?” like it was the most casual thing in the world. And you’d smiled—smiled—and said yes before your brain could catch up to your trauma.

Because it was Lando. Because his laugh made your stomach feel like a shaken soda can. Because you’d been toeing that line between friendship and something else for weeks, and this felt like a chance.

You thought: Stick to the ground. Eat something. Win a stupid prize. Don’t go near the rides. Easy.

But of course. Of course he’d want the damn Ferris wheel.

“Tallest one in the country,” he’d said two days later, scrolling through his phone and grinning. “You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t even blinked. “I’m not great with them,” you said, keeping your voice light. “But I’ll be okay.”

Cool. Casual. Lie of the year.

And now here you are.

At the fair.

Your legs feel heavy as you walk behind him, pretending to take in the lights and sounds—when really, you’re hyperaware of the giant, rotating circle of doom looming in the sky.

Lando turns around with a prize in hand—a plush pink star with a goofy smile—and hands it to you.

“Thought it looked like you,” he teases. You raise a brow. “I have a derpy face?” He laughs. “No. You’re just soft and adorable.”

Your cheeks warm. You’re distracting me on purpose, you think. And it’s working.

Until he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the ride. And the Ferris wheel comes into full view.

You stop walking.

You don’t mean to. Your body just… halts.

Lando turns, confused. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “Totally.”

But your stomach is already flipping like it’s in a washing machine.

You step forward again, carefully. The closer you get, the more you feel it: that pressure in your chest, the tingling in your legs, your brain whispering: don’t get on.

But Lando’s watching you. His hand brushes yours again. His smile is so wide.

You tell yourself: Be cool. Just breathe.

—

The gondola is smaller than expected. Open sides, metal bars, the whole thing creaks with every shift of weight.

Lando steps in first. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Just—hang on.”

You glance at the seat beside him. Your chest tightens.

“I’ll sit across from you,” you blurt.

He frowns, already moving to scoot over. “Why?”

“Just feels more balanced that way.”

He doesn’t question it. Just shifts, no fuss. “Sure. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

You sit. Slowly. Fingers gripping the bench like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The gondola lurches slightly as the door closes.

You flinch.

Lando notices. His smile dims a little.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

You flash him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yup. Just enjoying the ride already.”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

The wheel starts to turn.

You inhale sharply. Keep your gaze down. Your knee starts to bounce—small, controlled. You press your hand against it. Still trying to play it cool.

He leans back, arms resting on the sides. “You ever done one of these before?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Once.”

A pause.

“Didn’t go great,” you admit.

Lando tilts his head. “How come?”

Your throat tightens. But you answer. “Middle school. Friends forced me on. Then rocked it—on purpose. Thought it was funny.”

Lando’s jaw tenses. “That’s horrible.”

“They thought it was hilarious. I had a full-blown panic attack. They laughed the whole time.”

He’s quiet. Then says, soft and firm: “That’s not funny. That’s just cruel.”

You shrug, like it doesn’t still echo in your bones. “Been scared ever since.”

You look away. Try to swallow the rising wave of panic. You’re doing okay. Not great. But you’re up here. You’re making it.

And then—you stop.

The wheel jerks to a halt.

You both sway in place—then nothing.

Frozen.

Silence.

You feel it before you hear it: the panic crawling up your spine.

A crackle from the speaker overhead.

“Apologies, folks! We’re experiencing a temporary delay. Please remain seated. We’ll be back up and running shortly.”

You don’t breathe.

You don’t move.

Because moving might tip the gondola.

Because tipping means falling.

Because this is your nightmare.

You stare straight ahead, rigid.

Lando blinks. “Hey. You okay?”

You don’t respond.

“Y/N?”

Your breathing is shallow now, eyes darting to the bars, to the space beneath your feet, to the sky that suddenly feels too open.

“I can’t…” you whisper. “I can’t move. I can’t breathe.”

“Hey—look at me.”

You don’t. Can’t. The panic has fully locked in.

“Hey. Eyes on me, yeah?” His voice cuts through the rising noise in your head. “You’re alright. It’s okay.”

You blink hard. Force your eyes to his.

He’s calm. Present. Not mocking.

“I’m coming over,” he says.

“No—don’t—”

“I’ll move slow. Promise.”

And he does. Inching forward, crouching low to keep the gondola steady. You grip the bench like your life depends on it.

When he finally kneels in front of you, he doesn’t reach out right away.

“I’m right here,” he says gently. “You’re safe. Okay?”

Your legs are twitching. Your hands have gone numb.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod once, barely.

He takes your hands, wraps them in his. His thumbs stroke slowly over your knuckles.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “You’re not back in middle school. You’re not stuck with people who don’t care.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t even feel it.

“You’re with me.”

You press your forehead against his. Whisper: “I tried to act like I wasn’t scared.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be cool. For you.”

His eyes soften. “You are cool. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s brave as hell.”

The wind blows again. The gondola creaks. You flinch hard.

He tightens his grip. “I’ve got you. It’s not going anywhere. It’s just a sound.”

The minutes pass slow. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. You don’t know anymore.

Lando stays close. Keeps whispering.

“You’re doing so well.” “I’m proud of you.” “Breathe with me. In. Out. That’s it.”

Eventually, your knee stops bouncing. Your hands loosen. Your breath evens—just a little.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Always.”

Then, finally—finally—the speaker crackles again.

“We’re back up and running now—thanks for your patience.”

The wheel moves.

You squeeze Lando’s hand so hard you might bruise him.

He just squeezes back.

When your feet hit the ground again, you almost collapse.

Lando’s arm slips around your shoulders. Steadying.

“You did it,” he says quietly. “You freaking did it.”

You glance up at him. Your voice breaks: “I cried on you.”

“Yeah.” He grins. “But I look better with your tears on me.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a smile.

“Never again,” you mutter.

He leans closer. “Unless you’re with me.”

You meet his gaze. Warm. Familiar.

You nod. “Maybe.”

⸻

The fair is still buzzing.

Kids run past with neon cotton candy, parents yell over the sound of pop music blaring from a speaker, lights swirl above the carousel like fireworks. The world is moving again, but you’re not.

Not yet.

Your feet are planted on the gravel just beyond the Ferris wheel exit, and your body still feels like it’s up there—like the sky’s still spinning and the ground might give way.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

Lando notices.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Wanna sit somewhere for a sec?”

You nod. Quiet. Grateful.

He scans the area and spots a bench near the edge of the fairgrounds, tucked beside a lamppost. It’s quieter there. Farther from the noise.

He doesn’t say anything as you both walk, but his hand brushes your lower back—barely there, guiding, steady. Every step away from the wheel feels like shedding a layer.

By the time you reach the bench, you’re breathing more normally. Your knees still feel like jelly, but your chest is less tight.

You sit first, arms loose in your lap. Lando drops down beside you, hands resting between his knees, body angled just enough to face you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Just the hum of the fair behind you, the sound of gravel crunching under people’s shoes, the faint thump of your heart trying to find a rhythm again.

Lando’s voice breaks the silence. Soft. “I meant what I said. Up there.”

You glance over.

He’s not looking at you—just staring at the blinking lights reflecting in the puddle under a nearby booth.

“That you were brave,” he continues. “And strong.”

Your throat tightens again. But this time, it’s not panic.

“I didn’t feel strong.”

He finally looks at you. “You didn’t have to. You were. You are.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“You could’ve said no. Could’ve stayed on the ground. But you didn’t.”

“I should’ve,” you whisper.

“But you didn’t,” he repeats, more gently. “You wanted to push through it. For yourself. Maybe a little for me, too.”

You snort. “A little?”

He smiles. “Okay, a lot. I’m flattered.”

You exhale—almost a laugh. It feels good. Weirdly cleansing.

Lando leans back against the bench, legs stretched out. Then, after a beat: “You know… I was scared, too.”

You blink. “What?”

“Not of the height,” he adds quickly. “But… of messing this up. With you.”

That stills you.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his voice is quieter now. “You’re important to me. I didn’t want to push too hard. Or make you uncomfortable. I just… I didn’t know how much you were holding in until we got up there.”

You look at him. Really look. His messy curls are caught in the wind, hoodie slightly askew, expression open and honest in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say softly.

He turns his head toward you. “No?”

You shake your head. “You did the opposite.”

Another pause.

Then you whisper: “I’ve never had anyone stay with me during a panic attack before. Not like that.”

He swallows. “Well. Get used to it.”

Your brows lift. “What?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is steadier now. Confident. “You don’t have to go through stuff like that alone ever again. If you don’t want to.”

Your heart does a slow, heavy thump.

Something shifts in the air.

He’s looking at you differently now—like he’s seeing past the fear, past the pretending. Seeing you. And letting you see him back.

Your voice barely carries: “I don’t want to.”

He nods. His eyes flicker down—like he’s about to say something else—but then he hesitates.

And you? You lean in. Just enough that your shoulders brush. That your knees knock lightly. That the space between you starts to dissolve.

He tilts his head, and his voice lowers: “Can I…?”

You know what he means.

You nod.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not quite.

Not yet.

He leans in first—slowly, cautiously—until his forehead rests gently against yours.

You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And then his lips brush your temple. Light. Gentle. Careful, like he’s testing the idea of loving you.

You lean into it. Into him.

Your voice comes out like a whisper: “Thank you for today.”

He hums. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The night stretches around you, golden and soft. And in that quiet moment, sitting on a bench at the edge of the fair, you realize something that scares you even more than the Ferris wheel did:

You’re falling for him.

And for the first time —it’s safe to fall.

⸻

The walk to his car is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just full. Full of everything neither of you is quite saying yet. The kind of silence that feels like it has a heartbeat of its own.

Your steps crunch on gravel. His hoodie sways beside you, the sleeve brushing your arm now and then. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.

When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door for you like it’s instinct. Like it’s habit. Like maybe he wants it to be.

You settle into the seat. The plush pink star he won for you gets its own spot in the back. You glance at it and smile. It’s ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

He gets in, starts the car. The headlights cut through the dark.

It’s a 20-minute drive back to your place. You’ve done it before with him, but this time feels different. The music’s lower. The air’s warmer. Every red light feels like a chance to say something you don’t quite have the words for.

Halfway through, his hand shifts to adjust the volume—and his pinky brushes yours where it rests on the center console.

Neither of you moves.

Not away, not closer. Just… lingers.

You steal a glance at him. His jaw’s tight, eyes on the road. But the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows what that touch meant.

You stay like that the rest of the way.

⸻

He pulls up in front of your place and throws it in park, but neither of you reaches for the door.

You turn to him. “Thanks for driving.”

He glances over. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You nod once. “I meant it, earlier. I’ve never had anyone stay. Not like that.”

He leans back, one arm over the wheel. “Then they were idiots.”

That makes you laugh, breathy and unexpected.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Tonight felt like…”

“More?” he finishes for you.

You nod.

The silence after is weighted. Warm.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But when you say goodbye, it’s a little softer than usual. When he watches you walk up to your door, it’s with a look that lingers.

You close the door behind you and press your back to it, heart still thumping. You don’t move for a long time.

Your phone buzzes three minutes later.

Lando [11:22 PM] hey, you home safe?

You smile. Type back.

You [11:23 PM] yep. sitting on the floor like a weirdo. decompressing. thank you. again. for all of it.

Lando [11:24 PM] you were amazing tonight i hope you know that

You [11:24 PM] not sure that’s the word i’d use lol but i appreciate it

Lando [11:25 PM] i’d use it also brave. also cool. also adorable (especially when you cried on me)

Your face heats up instantly.

You [11:26 PM] stop i’ll die

Lando [11:26 PM] nah. you’ll live besides i’m kinda hoping i get to be there the next time you fall apart a little

You freeze.

Because it’s not flirty. Not really.

It’s honest. It’s real.

It lands in your chest like something you’ve been waiting to hear without knowing it.

You stare at the screen for a full minute before typing back.

You [11:27 PM] you might regret saying that i’m a mess sometimes

Lando [11:27 PM] guess i like messes especially the brave, soft, stubborn kind especially when they look at me like you did tonight

You bite your lip. Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then, finally:

You [11:28 PM] i’m still scared but not of you

Lando [11:28 PM] good because i’m not going anywhere

⸻

You wake up slowly.

The kind of slow that comes after an emotional hangover—the kind where your body’s still carrying the echoes of everything you felt the night before. You blink at the ceiling, blink at the soft morning light leaking through your curtains.

And then you remember.

The Ferris wheel. The panic. His hands around yours. His forehead resting against yours. The way he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your phone buzzes.

You fumble for it, heart jumping even before you read the screen.

Lando [09:12 AM] morning any lingering trauma or just the usual morning grumpiness?

You laugh into your pillow.

You [09:13 AM] mostly just bed hair and a need for caffeine trauma seems to be on vacation this morning

Lando [09:14 AM] glad to hear it coffee and pancakes? my treat. i know a place

Your heart stutters.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary.

You could say no. Could claim you’re tired, or that you need a day to recover. But the idea of sitting across from him with a warm mug in your hands and his eyes on you—

Yeah. That’s what you want.

You [09:14 AM] text me the address i’ll meet you there

Lando [09:15 AM] on it dress code: emotionally stable and hoodie-compatible

You [09:15 AM] so… hoodie and unwashed hair?

Lando [09:16 AM] exactly the dream girl fit

⸻

The café he picks is small. Warm. Tucked between a florist and a bookstore you’ve never noticed before. It smells like cinnamon and fresh bread and the clink of ceramic cups.

He’s already at a booth when you walk in—hood up, curls a little chaotic, one leg bouncing lightly under the table. There are two mugs already there. One’s pushed toward your side.

When he sees you, he lights up.

It’s not a huge thing. Just a subtle shift—his knee stops bouncing, his shoulders loosen, his smile softens like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“You came,” he says, sliding your mug a little closer.

“Of course I came,” you say, sitting across from him. “You promised pancakes.”

He grins. “I also promised to never emotionally traumatize you via theme park again.”

“Big promises,” you murmur. “You planning to keep them?”

His foot nudges yours under the table. “Every single one.”

And suddenly you’re warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the coffee.

⸻

You talk. About everything and nothing. About the time he accidentally dyed his hair green for a bet. About your favorite childhood cereal. About the weird dreams you both had last night.

But every now and then, the conversation goes still. Soft. Like something’s humming under the surface.

Halfway through your pancakes, you say, “I keep thinking about how it felt. Up there.”

He looks up immediately. Alert. “Bad thinking or…?”

You shake your head. “Not the panic part. Just… how I felt with you.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to.

Because his hand slides slowly across the table—until his pinky hooks around yours.

“I keep thinking about it too,” he says quietly.

Neither of you lets go.

⸻

It starts with a text, a couple of days later.

Lando [5:41 PM]

you home?

You [5:42 PM]

yep

blanket burrito on the couch

why?

Lando [5:42 PM]

perfect

i’m on my way

You blink. Sit up.

You [5:42 PM]

???

you can’t just show up mid-burrito

Lando [5:43 PM]

sure i can

i’m bringing snacks

You [5:43 PM]

…okay fine

what kind of snacks?

Lando [5:44 PM]

you’ll see

(also tell your blanket to make room for me)

⸻

He shows up fifteen minutes later with a paper bag full of stuff that shouldn’t go together but somehow works—popcorn, sour candy, chocolate-covered pretzels, a single apple for “balance.”

“You know,” you say as he dumps it all on the coffee table, “this is a chaotic spread.”

He grins. “It’s us. We’re chaotic.”

You roll your eyes but scoot over, tugging the edge of your blanket open.

Without hesitation, he slides in next to you. Close enough that your legs press together under the blanket, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It kind of is.

You put on a movie—something neither of you really watches. The room is dim except for the screen, and everything feels quieter than it is.

At some point, your head ends up on his shoulder.

At some point after that, his arm settles behind you, fingers brushing your hair absently.

And neither of you moves.

⸻

Halfway through the movie, you shift to look at him. Your faces are inches apart.

He doesn’t pull back.

He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—soft, curious, almost-smiling.

Your heart’s doing that fluttery thing again. The one that says go even when your brain’s whispering wait.

You speak first. “This feels… different.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It does.”

You swallow. “In a good way?”

He nods. “In a really good way.”

You pause. “So are we…?”

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t know what you want—but because you do.

“I want this,” you say. Barely a whisper. “I want you.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

You nod.

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in—slow, deliberate—and when his lips meet yours, it’s gentle at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like a question.

You answer it by leaning in closer.

And then it deepens.

Not rushed. Not messy. Just real.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your smile tugging at your lips like it can’t help it.

“That was…” you start.

“A bit overdue?” he offers, grinning.

You laugh. “Yeah. That.”

He tightens his arm around you. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time in a long time, you feel steady, too.

⸻

At one point, Lando shifts, glances at you. “Can I…?” he asks, motioning toward your lap.

You blink. “My lap?”

He gives a sheepish little shrug. “It looks comfortable.”

You lift an eyebrow but smile. “You’re such a menace.”

He grins, already laying down, head gently resting on your thighs. “But a charming one.”

You don’t argue. You just adjust the blanket, tuck it around both of you again, and softly card your fingers through his hair.

He hums. Eyes flutter closed. His lashes fan over his cheeks, and you swear your heart squeezes.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the soft hum of the TV and the gentle rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Every few seconds, his hand—resting on your knee—twitches slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to move closer, speak louder, say more.

Then, slowly, he turns his head and presses a light kiss to your knee through the blanket. Then, again, but to your hand this time—just a gentle press of his lips against your skin, like he’s thanking you without words.

You freeze for half a second.

And then melt.

Because it’s not loud. Not demanding. It’s soft and reverent and real.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, and he whispers without opening his eyes, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe with someone.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me neither,” you whisper back, fingers curling gently around his hand.

You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder lightly.

And for a long while, neither of you needs anything more than this.

⸻

Lando doesn’t move much after that.

He stays curled against you, cheek resting softly against your thigh, one hand loosely cradling yours like he’s afraid to let go—even in his sleep. His breathing evens out slowly, each rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythm of your fingers brushing through his hair.

You glance down at him.

His lashes are still, mouth parted slightly, expression softened into something completely unguarded. He looks younger like this. Softer. And it hits you again—how rare this kind of quiet is for someone like him. Always moving. Always on.

And now… he’s here. Asleep in your lap. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t dare move.

The TV drones on, forgotten. Your focus is entirely on him—the weight of his head, the warmth of his hand, the way your heart feels full and fragile all at once.

You didn’t expect this kind of closeness to feel so easy.

Or maybe it’s not easy—it’s just right.

You shift slightly, just enough to adjust the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Your fingertips drift along the curve of his jaw for a moment, feather-light.

And when he sighs in his sleep, thumb twitching against your palm, you feel it again—this pang in your chest like something’s blooming and breaking at the same time.

Because you’re falling.

So slowly, so deeply.

And you don’t want it to stop.

Not when he looks like peace personified in your lap.

Not when your hands still remember the press of his lips from earlier.

Not when you’ve never felt safer with anyone in your life.

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. Close your eyes. Just breathe him in.

And you think, God, I’m in trouble.

But it doesn’t scare you like the Ferris wheel did.

Not even a little.

⸻

[reyalvr]

RUMORS!

I KNOW YOU HEARD THE RUMORS, YOU MUST GET OVER TO IT RIGHT AWAY!

synopsis ┊ ken sato- a remarkable name in the world of modern baseball- has graced japan with not only his presence, but also his skills as a key player for the yomiuri giants. from press conferences to media endorsements, it’s clear that his stardom has only intensified from his recent move. but what happens when you, his personal assistant, are left to deal with some more… serious rumors?

genre ┊ chaotic fluff, oneshot

pairing ┊ ken sato x gn-PA!reader

warnings ┊ mild cursing, ami is not the reporter depicted!

word count ┊ 2.2k

author’s note ┊ hiya! i recently found time to watch ultraman: rising and this fic was just writing itself in my head hehe… happy reading! (p.s. yes… the title was inspired from the new minions song)

THREE MONTHS. That was how long you had known baseball’s darling, Ken Sato. And in those three months, you had undergone every single PR nightmare you had ever conjured up in your mind prior to pursuing your career. You had worked with celebrities before- doing God knows what ‘til the waking hour on their every beck and call. But Ken, despite presenting himself as a laid back man, was an entirely new… experience. 

From the Kaiju attack at his first game under the Giants, to the continuous streak of losses throughout the first half of the season, it seemed like the Gods were against you as you did your damndest to handle the damage control on his reputation. His ego didn’t aid you either- having to spin and twist multiple incidents to get reporters and media outlets off his back. You weren’t exactly sure what it was that kept you from quitting all in all, but the longer you worked under him, the thinner your thread seemed to snap. 

You huffed an annoyed sigh into the cold air, picking up the pace as you jogged along the designated path by the bay. Your days off were scarce- not because of Ken’s schedule, but because of your own decision to be up to date with his spontaneous actions. Despite the rarity of solitude, you always managed to savor your time off. The music played at a mellow volume in your ears, the morning sun starting to warm your surroundings as you watched its rays splash hues of orange across the sky. 

Your felt your watch beep against your skin, signaling the end of your morning run. Pausing by the railing, you leaned against the old metal bars as you checked your stats. You swiped absent-mindedly on the screen of your smartwatch, scrolling once you were sure that everything was in order. There was one thing that caught your eye, though, as you noticed the red notification bubbles on your message app were continuously going up. It was odd, yes, but not odd enough to be out of the ordinary- at least in your line of work. 

Deciding not to bombard yourself this early in the morning, you opted to give everything a once-over once you made it back to your apartment. Whatever it was could wait- you were on your time and your pace. Besides, it couldn’t be that bad. Could it now?

IT DEFINITELY COULD, AND IT DEFINITELY WAS. You pushed on the gas as hard as you could, your tongue poking into your cheek as you continued to drive to Ken’s house. Of all the days that he decided to make perhaps the stupidest decision in his career, he chose today. Doing your best not to see red, you dialed his phone once more. The ringing played throughout your car as you maneuvered through the roads, and you swore for what felt like the umpteenth time that morning when you heard the tone of his voice message. 

Hey, it’s Ken. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll be more than happy to ignore it! Said his usual arrogant tone playing before the generic beep. You gripped the steering wheel harder, huffing angrily as you sharply turned a corner. 

“Kenji Sato answer your goddamn phone right now! I’m ten minutes away from your house and when I get there, I better not be greeted with your supposed secret love child!” You yelled, pushing the red button once you finished your message. 

Ah yes. The centerpoint of your current rage: Ken’s “leaked” one-on-one with a reporter about juggling baseball and his homelife. Someone on Ken’s staff had sent the article in your shared work group chat, and nearly all of his personnel had directly messaged you about the issue. It was inevitable for celebrities to get into a scandal once or twice, but one on this level would not be an easy fit to overcome. 

You don’t exactly remember what you were doing prior to receiving the messages- all you knew was that you needed to get to Ken as soon as possible. Of course it just be a misunderstanding, hell it could even be a hoax! But knowing Kenji, anything could be possible. You neared the hill of his private property, driving past the gates as the security recognized your car.

You parked haphazardly at the front of his house, your feet stomping into the gravel as you made your way to his front door. His estate had numerous smart tech installed throughout his home, so you knew that each and every one of your moves were either being recorded or observed. You crouched slightly to be in frame with the doorbell’s camera, your anger slightly toned down.

“Ken.” You paused to narrow your eyes. “Open the door.”

For the next minute and a half you swore you could hear some sort of clash and bang from inside the house. You kept your arms crossed, raising your eyebrow from time to time when the clashing seemed to grow louder. After what felt like an eternity, the front door opened slightly. Not all the way, but just enough for Ken to peek out and smile at you- albeit nervously cocky.

The nerve.

“Hey, [Y/N]! What uh- what are you doing here?” He manages to cough out, roughly combing a hand through his hair. “I thought it was your day o-”

“Save it.” You reply, your gaze sharp enough to slice through whatever excuse he had at the ready. You held up your phone then, the article’s headline prominently bolded:

OUT OF LEFT FIELD: Ken Sato Strikeout? Nope! Love Child Home Run!

Ken’s head bent down to get a good look at what you were showing him, and you watched carefully as his eyes scanned over the article not once, but thrice. You let out an impatient hum, your mouth forming into a slight scowl as the both of you stood in silence. With your head tilted to the side, you dropped your hand back down and crossed your arms. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to start explaining to me what the hell you’ve been up to these past twenty-four hours?” You question, moving past him as you enter the house. 

Usually you would wait for Ken to let you in, but stalling would only hinder you from coming up with what to do next. The article had already been up for two hours, and you halted any statements from being made before you could get an explanation from Ken himself. He quickly tailed after you, nearly stumbling over himself as you stopped at his kitchen. You gripped the marble countertop, closing your eyes momentarily before you turned to face him once more. 

“[Y/N] I swear, it’s not as bad as you think it is,” Ken says as he tries to add reassurance to his tone, but it doesn't mask the lingering tinge of falsehood.

“Oh, really?” You say, your eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Because in the span of two hours I have had thirty news outlets blowing up my- your management team for a response!”

He opens his mouth to speak, but stops again midway when you continue. “The headline I showed you was local. I want you to tell me exactly how and why you were on the phone with a reporter talking about your private life at God knows what hour. Now.”

You can see him swallow, licking his lips after as he tries to form the right words. He blinks a bit before pinching the bridge of his nose, tilting his head up as he lets out a deep sigh. When he opens his eyes he’s still greeted with your restive stance. Still he remains slightly hesitant, but he does end up recalling the remnants of his conversation with a reporter he had met at one of the parties he attended. Ken goes on to explain that he had only seeked out advice. His schedule, his personal life- he needed an outlet. You can feel yourself slowly untense, though you continued to listen to make sure all your facts were straight.

When he finishes his retelling, he puts his hands up slightly- as if he were trying to put you at ease. “I swear, that’s all I said. I thought,” He pauses, his brows furrowing in a way that made you slightly mad at yourself from blowing up at him. “I just thought I could have a normal conversation for once. ‘Guess I was wrong.”

The warm lights cast a sombre shadow on his features, and from this angle you notice the worn out expression painted on his face. The bags under his eyes are darker than usual, not to mention the fading bruises from his latest altercation with one of players from his opposing team. In front of you was not Ken Sato, this was Kenji; Simply a man who was thrust into a new life without the needed support. 

“Well, no shit.” You say, finally breaking the silence, you fix your posture against the counter as you tone down the anger in your voice. “Jesus Ken, sometimes I wonder how you were able to maintain your career before me.”

At that he lets out a soft laugh, his dull expression slowly fading. “Yeah, I do too.”

You give him a puzzled look before you reply. “Are you mocking me?”

“No! No, I was being serious.” He says, his smile dropping slightly. “I know I haven’t been an easy task, hell you’re here on your day off for Christ’s sake.” 

You hum at his words, narrowing your eyes slightly as you push yourself off the counter with another awkward cough. In all ninety days of working under Ken Sato, never has the man gotten this sentimental with you. You decide not to linger on his words, your attention going back to the problem at hand. 

“Right, well,” You sigh, whipping your phone out in the process. “I need you to give me the name of that reporter. I’ll get the legal team to draft an NDA breach.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows then, looking at you as if you’d said something odd. “I didn’t make him sign an NDA though?”

You only give him a smile, a hint of confidence plastered on your lips. “I know. I have my ways, Sato.”

“You’re a pretty good assistant, then.” He replies, the corners of his lips going up slightly as he keeps his arms crossed. 

“I’m an excellent assistant.” You correct without looking at him, your fingers tapping away at your phone as you prepare the next steps of your plan. 

Ken can only chuckle in agreement, tapping his fingers on his forearm as he awaits your next set of instructions. Within the next twenty minutes you’ve sent out the necessary details to your team, your legs kicking as you sit on one of his bar stools. He’s stood across from you, leaning on the countertop looking at you intently as you explain the response plan. 

“And lastly,” You say, sliding out your hand. “Give me your phone.”

 His head tilts, the same confused expression on his face. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Your hand curls, motioning for him to hand his phone over. “No, I am not installing a monitor.” You add when you see his mouth open to interrogate you. 

He slides his phone over with a defeated huff, and you open a new contact page on his contacts. “If you need to talk, do it with someone who won’t leak your shit.” You say, sliding back his phone when all your details are settled.

“I have your number though, don’t I?” Ken questions, looking over at the number you inputted. 

“You had my work number. Now you have my personal phone.” You point your finger at him before continuing. “Don’t abuse it. I’m still your assistant.” “Wasn’t gonna, sweetheart.” He says, an amused smirk mixing in with his addled look. 

You quirk your eyebrow at the nickname. You shake your head, hopping off the stool as you make your way back to the front door. Ken follows behind you, hands in his pockets as he watches you leave. Before you can open the door though, you look back at him one last time. 

“I mean it, Ken.” You say, making sure it gets through his head. “You have a problem, tell me. You need a solution, you tell me.”

“I know, I know.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding towards the door. “Go enjoy the rest of your day off before I start thinking you care about me.”

“I do. It’s my job to care about you, Ken.” You reply, giving him a look before you open the door. “Whether you like it or not, I’m your lifeline. At least until you get rid of me, which won’t be happening for a good while.”

“Oh yeah?” He jests, his cocky demeanor slowly coming back. “‘You so sure about that?”

“Extremely sure.” You’re standing outside now, slowly walking backwards. “Twenty minutes ago people thought you had a secret love child and that you were a terrible father. Now you’re back on the face of KFC as baseball’s darling.” 

He’s taken aback. Was he actually booted off of his collaborations? He hastily checked his phone, scrolling through all his platforms. To his surprise, he was greeted with… his usual feeds. No sight of the article, no lingering gossip. His ads had doubled, his partnerships boosted on the products he had endorsed. He looked back up to say something, but you had already started your car. You backed out his estate, giving him a smile through the tinted glass of your windshield. 

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. You were right. But who was he kidding?

You always were.

[lovemomhatepolice]

drivers licence - f1 drivers multi!

navigation taglist requests

pairing: f1 drivers x fem!reader

warnings DRIVERS LICENCE, swearing, English is my second language

belonging: f1 drivers multi!

type: fluff, some are a little angst

summary: short stories about how a particular driver would teach you driving (or try)

more content: formula 1 masterlist, lando norris first meeting, max verstappen nswf alphabet 2

charles leclerc

“Are you sure you know how to park?” [Y.N] teased him, buckling her seatbelt, while Charles combed his hand through his hair, already exasperated.

“Of course I know how to park,” he muttered, putting the car in reverse gear. “It's just… sometimes I misjudge space,” he said.

“Sometimes?” she snarked, scrolling through countless memes on her phone depicting Charles' parking failures. “You're literally known for that.”

Charles groaned. “Fine, fine, laugh all you want, but today I'm the teacher and you're the student.”

“That's what worries me,” she said, smiling.

They were in an almost empty parking lot, Charles having chosen the safest place imaginable to prevent any disaster. He turned to her with the most serious expression on his instructor's face.

“All right. First, check the mirrors. Then slowly…”

“I know how mirrors work, Charles,” interrupted [Y.N].

“Let me teach you! - He growled, before continuing. “Now gently turn the steering wheel while reversing. Feel the car, control the movement and…”

The car jerked violently backward, causing him to grab the seat in terror. In response, it additionally turned off, causing silence in the car for a brief moment.

“[Y.N]!” the Monegasque shouted, looking at his girlfriend.

[Y.N], despite her slight dismay, burst out laughing. “You said to feel the car!”

“Not like that! You want to crash my Ferrari?!”

“You have a whole garage.” She then looked at him indulgently and put her hand on his shoulder. “Besides, Ferrari will give you 10 more of these if you ask.”

Charles looked at his girlfriend, not at all convinced, and nodded toward the ignition keys to start the car back up. “Come on,” he muttered, tilting the window. “We have to finish this before it gets dark.”

Then she followed his instructions more carefully this time, the car smoothly backing into the spot. She stopped and looked at him expectantly.

Charles inspected it, then tilted his head. "Hmm. A little crooked, but—"

"It's better than your parking," she quipped.

He groaned, dropping his head against the seat. "Remind me why I’m teaching you again?"

"Because you're my boyfriend, and I need to learn from the best," she said sweetly before adding, "Well, relatively speaking."

Charles shook his head with a smile. "Alright, fine, but you owe me something,” he laughed lightly, looking in her direction.

“Is a kiss enough?” she asked, laughing under her breath and moving closer to him to then join their lips in a kiss.

“More than enough” muttered the man, smiling into her lip

—————

kimi antonelli

Kimi sat down in the passenger seat, clasping his hands in his lap so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I don't think this is a good idea.”

[Y.N] smiled sweetly. “Relax, you just got your driver's license. You can pass on your wisdom to me, it's fresh.”

“That's exactly why I'm scared.” - he muttered under his breath. “I gained it so quickly, I don't want to lose it any sooner.”

They parked in a quiet neighborhood, where the most dangerous thing on the road was an elderly man walking his dog. But for Kimi it might as well have been Monza at full speed.

“Okay,” [Y.N] said cheerfully after a moment of silence, putting the car into first gear. “Let's go!”

The car shot forward as if it had been launched off the grid. The girl knew more or less what she was doing, since she had already had some lessons with a real instructor, but who would disdain free lessons with her boyfriend?

Her daring drive through a small intersection was interrupted by a terrified Kimi, who looked as if he had been forced to drive. Not at all, like a professional driver who just got into Formula One - the most prestigious and perhaps also dangerous racing in the world.

“OH MY GOD-[Y.N], BRAKE!”.

She pressed the brake and they both moved forward. Kimi instinctively grabbed the dashboard as if it were a life raft.

“Okay,” she said, panting. “A little too much gas. I understand, too extreme for you.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Mi ucciderai!.”

She giggled. “Don't be dramatic! You drive race cars!”

“Yes, but at least I know what I'm doing!

Ignoring him, she started the car again, this time more gently. Kimi started breathing again, but just at the moment he relaxed his fists….

She reached a traffic circle. There was nothing difficult about it, she even thought it was the best she could do for now. Yet all it took was a moment of inattention and the girl drove into the wrong lane, admittedly not causing any collision, but enough to make Kimi gasp for air again.

“Pull over to the side,” - he said weakly, but the girl initially ignored him, continuing to drive. “[Y.N], please, I'm too young to die. I just got a Formula 1 seat!"

As she pulled over to the side of the road, Kimi slumped back in his seat, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I've never been so scared in my life. Not even in my first F4 race.”

[Y.N] burst out laughing. “Come on. It wasn't that bad,” she said.

Kimi turned to her with his eyes wide open. “We drove for five minutes and I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Suddenly he began to gesture, at which the girl had to hold back her laughter. Sometimes she forgot that her boyfriend was Italian.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “So you mean to say that … I just need more practice?

Kimi groaned and leaned his head against the seat. “I'll never get into a car with you again.

“Even if I pass the first time?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and looking at her boyfriend.

Kimi looked at her, looked at the car, then sighed in defeat. “I have to make a will first.”

—————

oscar piastri

“All right,” Oscar said, buckling up and looking ahead with his usual focused expression. “Parallel parking. It's not difficult. Just follow my instructions exactly,” he said.

[Y.N], sitting in the driver's seat, looked at him sideways. She smiled under her breath, seeing his confident expression. “You sound so self-assured.”

“Because I'm pretty confident, and even more so that you can do it.” - he replied matter-of-factly. “Now pull up next to this car.

She did so. A little crooked, but enough to fit in.

Oscar sighed, but said nothing. This was their first, if you can call it a lesson. “Good. Now turn the steering wheel all the way to the right and start reversing slowly.”

She carefully followed his instructions, and her hands gripped the steering wheel as if her life depended on it. The car began to reverse.

“Good,” nodded Oscar, smiling slightly at her. “Now straighten the steering wheel. You're doing great.”

She tried.

Oscar's eyes narrowed. “No, no, no, you're going too far. A little to the left - no, not so much! Right again - no, no - stop!”.

The car came to an abrupt stop. [Y.N] squirmed, looking sideways at Oscar. “Oops.”

Oscar breathed, pinching the back of his nose. “It's okay, it's okay. I put too much pressure on you. We just need to improve the angle.”

As he started to drive it again, a car pulled up behind them and honked. Oscar immediately went into a fighting mood, although of course he didn't show it from himself, but only made a snearky comment.

Oscar turned his head. “Are you serious?”

She looked in the mirror. “Uh… should I-?”

“No. Stay where you are,” he said in a flat voice.

The driver behind them honked again.

Oscar clenched his jaw and muttered more to himself than to the man behind the window. “Buddy, we're clearly parking. Get around us.”

The driver didn't move, and Oscar rolled down his window and looked at him with a crooked look. "Unbelievable. An old man who doesn't know the rules of the road. And he still thinks he'll impress someone with his expensive car."

[Y.N] bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Oscar, I just…"

"No, because what's his problem?" he continued, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Does he think that honking will magically make you park faster?"

She turned to him, amused. "You sound more pissed off than I am."

Oscar crossed his arms. "Because it's annoying. People in normal traffic are worse than race drivers, I swear. And he honks at my girlfriend, let him go fuck himself."

Finally, the car behind them gave up and drove off. Oscar watched as it disappeared down the street, still clearly irritated. Then, he sighed contentedly and looked at [Y/N] with an encouraging nod.

“Okay,” he mumbled, exhaling. “Let’s go back to the parking lot.”

With his instructions (and fewer distractions), the girl managed to park the car perfectly. She looked at him happily, seeing his satisfaction.

“Did I do it?”

Oscar checked. He nodded. “Yeah. Nice on, you did well without that jerk in the back.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to teach me, you spent most of your time yelling at other drivers.”

Oscar shrugged. “Well, if people knew how to drive, maybe I wouldn’t have to. They drive worse than Carlos, who pushes around on the track.”

She rolled her eyes, but leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for the lesson, coach Piastri."

—————

max verstappen

[Y.N] sat in the driver's seat, arms crossed, staring at the steering wheel as if she had personally insulted her. Her eyes were watering and her lips were pursed in a grimace. It had been over five minutes since the girl had turned off the car and had sat in silence as she hit the traffic cone on the maneuvering yard yet again.

Max, sitting in the passenger seat, watched her breakdown in silence, allowing her to take offense.

Finally, she sighed dramatically. "I'll never pass."

Max winked. "Okay."

She turned to him indignantly. "Okay? Is that all you have to say?"

"Would you rather I lied?" he asked slightly mockingly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "Don't stress out so much. It's just a driving test."

"Just a driving test?" She caught her breath. "Max, you're a professional driver. You wouldn't get this."

He raised his eyebrows. "I became a Formula 1 driver before I even got a regular driver's license."

[Y.N] paused. "What's that supposed to mean? Should I just give a fuck and become a Formula 1 driver?"

He smirked. "You really could. The Formula Academy is growing, such a pretty and a smart woman would fill the spot perfectly."

Max sighed, reaching up to adjust her hands on the wheel. “Stop thinking too much. I’ll explain this to you properly.”

She sniffed. “Really?”

“Yeah, but if you cry while you learn, you won’t get anywhere. You’ll definitely not see the cones.” He smiled weakly at her, which she returned.

He led her through it step by step—slowly, methodically, making sure she understood each part before moving on. When she got frustrated, he’d crack a joke to lighten the mood.

By the end of their lesson, [Y.N] had managed to do the task flawlessly, even several times in a row, so she smiled happily to herself as she parked her car on the side of the parking lot.

She turned to him, her eyes widening. "Did you see that?! I did it!"

Max smiled at her and clapped his hands. "Amazing. A true performance by a world champion."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Shut up."

He smiled pityingly. "You're not as bad as you think. I'd say you're good, it's just that you have too much on your mind and stress is eating you up. You'll pass in no time."

The girl looked at him and smiled at her boyfriend, fixing her hair. "Thank you Max," she said, grabbing his hand. "Time to go home."

"I'm driving," Max muttered, opening the passenger door and stepping outside.

“Thank God,” the girl laughed, repeating his steps.

A/N: first part of the driving license stories. two more to come. I keep my fingers crossed that you had fun. Any feedback is welcome

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[mapis-putellas]

𝑷𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

It started as any other day in Barcelona. The sun was shining, the air warm but pleasant, and Alexia was finishing up her morning routine, methodical as always. You watched from the sofa, scrolling absently through your phone while she moved around the flat, gathering her essentials for a planned lunch outing. Her cupra keys hung on the hook by the door, glinting temptingly in the light. That’s when the idea struck.

For months, you’d been relegated to the passenger seat of her beloved car, and while you adored her insistence on taking care of you, you sometimes longed to be in control. You had your licence; you were a good driver. Yet every time you reached for those keys, she would scoop them away, pulling you into one of those deceptively gentle hugs that left no room for argument. You’d tried reasoning, teasing, even sulking, but nothing swayed her. Today, though, you decided it would be different.

You slipped off the sofa as quietly as possible, grabbing the keys and slipping out of the flat. It was a little thrill to descend the stairs and approach her car, knowing she was still inside, oblivious. Sliding into the driver’s seat, you adjusted it to your height, smiling mischievously as you waited for her.

When Alexia finally appeared, her bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head, she froze mid-step. Her eyes locked onto you through the windscreen, her brows furrowing in confusion before the realisation hit. She pointed at you and shook her head, already muttering to herself in Spanish as she strode towards the car.

You rolled the window down just as she reached the driver’s side door. “What are you doing?” she asked, her accent thick but her tone unmistakably firm.

“I’m driving,” you said simply, flashing her your most innocent smile.

“No,” she said immediately, gesturing for you to get out. “Move.”

You shook your head, hands gripping the wheel as if your life depended on it. “Not today, baby. You always drive. It’s my turn.”

She sighed, exasperated, her hands going to her hips. “You can’t drive my car. You know this.”

“I can, and I will,” you replied, grinning up at her. “Come on, Alexia, just let me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No. Get out.”

You leaned back in the seat, feigning relaxation. “Not happening.”

She tugged at the handle, which of course you had locked, then let out another huff of frustration. “Unlock the door, mi vida,” she demanded, but her voice had softened slightly, as if trying a gentler approach might work.

“Nope. Passenger side’s open, though,” you quipped, gesturing to the other door with a cheeky grin.

She threw her hands up in frustration, muttering something under her breath that you didn’t quite catch. Then she marched around to the passenger side, yanking that door open. For a moment, you thought she’d given in, but no, she leaned over, reaching for the keys still in the ignition. You quickly pulled them out and held them up.

“Nice try,” you said, grinning.

Her glare could’ve melted steel. “You are impossible,” she said, straightening up and storming back to your side of the car.

“Am I, though?” you teased, twirling the keys in your hand.

“Yes,” she said firmly, crossing her arms. “Get out.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the keys back into the ignition and revving the engine lightly. The sound made her stop in her tracks, her eyes widening slightly.

“You wouldn’t,” she said, her voice quieter now, a hint of disbelief creeping in.

You raised an eyebrow, foot hovering over the pedal. “Try me.”

Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought she might genuinely lose it. But then she sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose before muttering something else in Spanish. Finally, she walked back around to the passenger side and got in, slamming the door behind her.

“Happy?” she said, her tone sharp.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, trying -and failing- to hide your grin.

The car pulled out smoothly, and you couldn’t help but glance over at her. She sat stiffly, arms crossed and her lips pressed into a thin line. You reached over, placing your hand on her thigh the way she always did with you.

“Relax, baby,” you said, giving her leg a gentle squeeze. “I’ve got this.”

She didn’t reply, her gaze fixed firmly out the window.

“Oh, come on,” you teased. “You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Dramatic?” she repeated, finally turning to look at you. “This is my car.”

“And you’ll get it back in one piece,” you assured her. “Probably.”

Her eyes widened again, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “Kidding! I’m kidding!”

“Not funny,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“You’re cute when you’re grumpy,” you said, unable to resist.

She shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “Stop talking.”

“Not a chance,” you said cheerfully. “I have to enjoy this moment while I can. It’s not every day I get to call you the passenger princess.”

Her scoff was immediate. “I am not-”

“Oh, but you are,” you interrupted, grinning at her. “Sitting there, all pretty and pouty. It suits you.”

She muttered something in Spanish, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.

By the time you reached the restaurant, she looked like she was ready to explode -or possibly murder you. You parked the car with a flourish, turning to her with a smug smile.

“See? No scratches, no dents. I’m a great driver,” you said.

She didn’t reply, simply shaking her head as she got out of the car. But as you walked around to meet her, she caught your wrist, pulling you close.

“Never again,” she said firmly, her voice low.

“We’ll see,” you replied, leaning up to kiss her cheek.

Her lips twitched, but she quickly schooled her expression into something neutral as she dragged you into the restaurant.

-

The moment you slipped Alexia’s car keys out of her back pocket, you knew you were in trouble. The sharp intake of breath you heard from her told you everything you needed to know before you even turned to look at her. She was standing still, her hands on her hips, her jaw set. Her eyes locked onto yours with a mix of annoyance and incredulity, and for a moment, you thought she might actually explode.

You froze for half a second, your fingers curling tightly around the keys as you gauged your options. Her voice, low and firm, broke the tense silence between you.

“Dámelos,” she demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your eyes widened, but instead of obeying, you did the exact opposite. Without a word, you bolted across the nearly empty car park, the keys clutched tightly in your hand.

“¡Dios mío!” Alexia muttered under her breath before taking off after you.

You could hear her footsteps behind you, heavy and determined, but you knew you had the advantage. She may have been taller, her stride longer, but you were faster, and you had no intention of giving up your prize so easily.

“Stop running!” she called, her voice sharp as she chased you around the rows of parked cars.

“Then stop trying to take the keys!” you shouted back, throwing a grin over your shoulder.

Her eyes narrowed, and she quickened her pace, but you zigzagged between cars, keeping just out of her reach. You could hear her muttering in Spanish, words you didn’t quite catch but that you knew were probably not the most flattering.

“Esto no es gracioso!” she called, her tone somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “Give me the keys!”

“Not a chance, baby!” you teased.

She huffed audibly, her strides becoming more purposeful. “You’re going to make me really angry,” she warned, but her empty threats only spurred you on.

You darted around a lamppost, narrowly avoiding her outstretched hand as she tried to grab you. “You’re going to have to work harder than that!” you taunted, feeling a surge of adrenaline as you stayed just ahead of her.

“Eres imposible!” she shot back, her tone full of exasperation.

Despite her irritation, there was something playful in her eyes that told you she wasn’t entirely serious. Still, her determination was undeniable, and you could feel her frustration mounting as the chase continued.

Finally, after a few more laps around the car park, you noticed her pace slowing slightly. She stopped in the middle of an empty lane, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. Her shoulders rose and fell heavily, and when she looked up at you, there was something different in her expression.

“Amor,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of weariness.

You slowed to a stop, guilt creeping in as you saw the faint trace of hurt in her eyes. You didn’t want to actually upset her. Clutching the keys tightly in your hand, you hesitated for a moment before walking towards her.

“Alexia,” you started, your voice gentle. “I didn’t mean to-”

Before you could finish your sentence, she straightened up and lunged forward, grabbing the keys from your hand in one swift motion.

Your jaw dropped as you realised what had just happened. “Wait, what?!”

She stepped back, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she held up the keys like a trophy. “Gotcha,” she said smugly.

It hit you like a tonne of bricks. She’d played you. She’d used your soft spot for her to her advantage, knowing you wouldn’t be able to resist comforting her.

“You tricked me!” you exclaimed, your voice a mix of shock and betrayal.

Her grin widened as she twirled the keys around her finger. “You deserved it,” she replied.

“How dare you!” you pouted, crossing your arms and sinking down onto the curb in dramatic fashion.

She let out a soft laugh, her steps slow and deliberate as she walked over to where you were sitting. “Vamos,” she said, nodding towards the car.

“No,” you replied stubbornly, refusing to look at her.

“Amor,” she tried again, crouching slightly to meet your gaze.

You shook your head, keeping your arms firmly crossed. “Not talking to you.”

Her expression softened slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she reached out to brush her fingers against your knee. “Don’t be like this,” she said softly.

You shrugged her hand off, turning your face away from her. “You played me, Alexia. That’s low.”

She let out a quiet sigh, standing up straight and crossing her own arms as she looked down at you. “Okay,” she said simply, her tone almost too casual.

Before you could process what she meant, she rounded your body, bent down, her strong arms wrapping around you as she hoisted you up off the curb like you weighed nothing.

“Alexia!” you squealed, your hands instinctively gripping her shoulders as she adjusted her hold on you, bouncing you up slightly so arms were beneath your ass.

“Now you come,” she said firmly, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she started walking towards the car with you still in her arms.

You squirmed in her grasp, but her hold was unyielding. “Put me down!”

“No,” she replied simply, her tone light but final.

You huffed, your pout returning as you rested your chin on her shoulder. “I hate you,” you muttered, though the lack of conviction in your voice made it clear you didn’t mean it.

“No, you don’t,” she said confidently, her lips brushing against your shoulder as she spoke.

When she finally reached the car, she set you down gently, her hands lingering on your waist for a moment as she looked at you. “You’re very stubborn,” she said, her tone soft but teasing.

You rolled your eyes, still pouting as you leaned back against the car. “Takes one to know one.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile as she opened the passenger door, gesturing for you to get in. “Come on, mi vida.”

You hesitated for a moment, still tempted to cling to your sulk, but the warmth in her eyes and the gentle curve of her smile made it impossible to stay mad at her.

“Fine,” you muttered, sliding into the seat.

She leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before closing the door and walking around to the driver’s side.

As she started the car, you couldn’t help but glance over at her, a small smile tugging at your own lips despite yourself.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you said quietly, echoing her earlier words.

She glanced at you, her smile softening. “I know,” she replied, her voice filled with affection.

*

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @ktgoodmorning @chelseacult

[wirewitchviolet]

A controller with a scroll wheel, you say?

Well this is a little funny. Yesterday I posted the first part of a series of post on the fine details of how computers work, mentioning how I've been looking into this as part of a personal project I've been working on, and today I wake up to see Masahiro Sakurai posting a youtube video lamenting the lack of... this exact thing I'm working on.

Apologies for how much cat hair is in this photo, that's a bit of an occupational hazard, but this here is a photo I took back in September when most of the parts I had to order were in for the prototyping of this thing:

That's a really bad MS Paint mockup, but yeah. I'm designing my own game console, and one of the key features is a big ol' scroll wheel right in the center of the controller. Another is that I'm planning to just put all the designs of the circuit boards and 3D printer files for the casing/buttons up online for free, making it this totally open DIY thing where anyone who's a big enough nerd can just make a couple downloads, order some dirt cheap components, and build their own copy of the system (or people with better setups than me can build and sell them, whatever). So I'm not super worried about anyone stealing my ideas or whatever, but I WOULD like to establish a standard and all that, and figured it was worth noting that this is something I've been slowly working towards for like a year or two now, and didn't just get the idea from this video:

But yeah, now that the idea's out in the public consciousness, here's the plan for the controller (that I was planning to keep under my hat until I had a working prototype and some demo software sometime next year).

First off, the plan is that this is to be the standard controller for a whole console I'm also plucking away at designing, which is a bit more ambitious of a project, so I figure I might as well make it compatible with something that's already out there. So specifically, I'm designing this so that you can take one, plug it right into an SNES (or with a different connector at the end, an NES, because turns out they use the exact same input handling standard and it's just the shape of the plastic on the end that differs), and have it just work. Or mostly work anyway. I'm hoping I can process a signal out of the scroll wheel in a way that it either just needs the 3 extra bits of the input signal I don't have buttons for in my design (more on that later) or failing that, I can get it to output the same sort of signal as one wheel in the SNES mouse, which just rides along the second data line very few things use. I think that plan might break multitap compatibility and require an extra chip on the controller PCB, but it would leave this slightly more compatible with existing games on the same hardware. I might also do something weird with the button mapping to be sure NES select is on a shoulder and it works right out of the box with that whole library.

Working out exactly how to handle signals from the scroll wheel happens to be the point I'm currently stuck on by the way. I got this baggie full of rotary encoders for just a few cents which... almost fit in my first draft 3D printed wheel housing, but I have NO documentation on them, not even a part number/manufacturer besides "H-9," the pins don't fit a breadboard, and I've kinda been scrambling for rent so I can't afford a nice multimeter or oscilloscope to poke around with. Plus again I need to redesign this wheel print to even get it to spin right, and... this was a gift from a friend with a printer who is Not Local. Solvable problem, just needs more time and/or outside expertise.

But yeah, once I have those kinks worked out, it should be easy enough to get a custom board design made, replicas of end-cap of the controller cord are another problem easily solved by ordering a 1 dollar part or 3D printing something. The actual cord might be tricky since I don't know where you actually order something like that from, but it should be easy enough for anyone who doesn't mind a little assembly work to put one of these together and have it good to go for any software made with it in mind, or retrogames where you don't mind a weird button count. So... what's the pitch on this scroll wheel anyway?

Well for starters, there's the stuff Sakurai got into this morning. Any sort of RPG or text heavy game can use it to quickly scroll through menu options, or stuff in a text-heavy game. You could also pan the screen with it, something a lot of early 16-bit games assigned to the shoulder buttons or holding up and down while getting used to the new options the hardware was giving them.

Past that, you'll notice in my design it's at a 45 degree angle. I might have to tweak it a little, but my thinking is for a game that uses it heavily, one thumb or the other can slide over easily enough (I'm going for a pretty compact overall design) so we can have some games where you take your thumb off the D-pad, and have this nice analogue steering wheel. Nice for fine control in a racing game, or if you want some little radio-tuning/safe-cracking sorta deal.

Alternatively, move your right thumb over, use the D-pad to steer, shoot and dodge or whatever with shoulder buttons, and use the wheel to rotate a turret for a twin-stick sort of game maybe.

Or just use it for the sort of stuff mouse based games stick on the scrollwheel. Changing weapons, changing powerups... I'm planning to officially label the directions "hot" and "cold" to encourage weird gimmicky things like... I dunno, a platformer where you have a thermostat in your controller you can always mess with, freeze water coming out of pipes, crank up flame jets? Have a shot charging mechanic where you just really crank it to get to max strength? Weird minigame stuff. There's some fun space to explore with it.

Then we have the rest of the design here... which basically comes down to me being just plain sick of how every controller made by anyone in the past... 20 years give or take has kind of the exact same layout? 4 good face buttons, a D-pad, 4 shoulder buttons, 2 sticks, and 1-4 annoying to reach tiny awkward middle buttons, and we're just kind of overdue for a change-up?

Like first of all, hey, this is just too many buttons. There's a ton of games that really only need a D-pad, and maybe 3 buttons (attack jump pause) and the two things that aren't fully standardized is how awkwardly placed the D-pad is and how awful and awkwardly placed the pause button is. Shoulder buttons can be nice, but I've never really felt like 4 of them awkwardly crammed on the rim has been really useful or ergonomic, and that's coming from someone who's been playing a ton of FF14, which gets more use out of them than anything else I could name. And really, aside from games doing fake twin-stick stuff and using the whole grid like a second D-pad, I'm having a really hard time thinking of any game I've ever played that really makes good use of 4 good face buttons? Like people will use them if they've got'em sure, but unless you do that keyboard style thing where you lay the controller on a table and use all your fingers, you can really only comfortably hit 2 face buttons without sliding your thumb away from them, maybe comfortably make a quick pivot to a third.

Also, really, a lot of designers just sort of feel compelled to map SOMETHING to every button, even if it's clear the design didn't really need them. So basically I figure I'll try kinda just taking a "less is more" approach here. Here's the buttons that it's comfortable to rest your thumbs and fingers on, here's a dedicated pause/menu button where people often stick a kind of redundant menu button, here's my gimmicky scrollwheel. That's it, work around that.

I'm also going a little Gamecube inspired (literally using replacement membranes for one in my prototype design, even). Gonna make a great big primary button and use different shapes for the other two. Trying to label these in a less arbitrary fashion than most. If shooting a gun is a thing you do in this game, and there isn't a real good reason not to, default it to this nice right trigger you can hold down all the time. If we're advancing through menus or jumping or holding down gas in a car, here's the big GO button. Need brakes, need to break stuff with a melee attack? Go back in a menu system? There's your other face button. Have a quick dash move or a run you hold down, let's just use the other shoulder.

So yeah. That's my controller. Need to work out the kinks on the scroll wheel, source a cord, and hopefully I can slap things together and this will be something you can just order bits for piecemeal and put together for like, $5-10 after shipping? Maybe less? The parts are shockingly cheap so far.

But yeah if anyone has any insight to the scroll wheel or cord issues, let me know. Also the whole thing is presently a tad back-burnered because I am in a serious financial crisis and I don't want to have electronics spread all over my table if I have to abruptly find a new place to live if I can't scrape next month's rent together. So as usual, donations are incredibly welcome.

[gilbertscurls]

trading places — matt sturniolo

summary: matt gets tired during a roadtrip.

The highway stretched endlessly ahead, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything. You sat in the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath yourself, idly scrolling through your playlist. Nick and Chris were in the back, laughing about something, as they always did, their voices blending with the music playing softly in the background. The car hummed along, its gentle rhythm almost lulling you to sleep.

But then, you glanced over at Matt.

His eyes were focused on the road, but they seemed heavy, the dark circles under them more prominent now in the fading light. Every so often, his hand would flex on the steering wheel, his grip tightening, trying to stay alert.

“Hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm. “You good?”

Matt gave you a quick smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired, but we’re almost there.”

You weren’t convinced. You could see the fatigue in the way his shoulders slumped, how his blinks lasted just a little too long. The trip had been fun so far—hours of laughter and road trip banter with his brothers—but it was clear Matt had taken on more than his share by driving the whole way.

“You look exhausted,” you pointed out, your tone gentle but firm. “How about I take over for a bit?”

Nick and Chris paused their conversation at that, both looking toward the front.

Nick chimed in, half-joking, “You offering to drive? Because, uh, I’d love to see that.”

You rolled your eyes but kept your attention on Matt. “Yes, I’m offering. You guys can’t drive,” you added, turning back to shoot a look at Nick and Chris, “since none of you bothered to get your licenses.”

Chris grinned. “Hey, we just like being chauffeured around by Matt.”

“Yeah, real helpful,” Matt muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the wheel again. You could see the strain in him now, the long hours of being behind the wheel wearing him down.

“Matt, pull over,” you insisted, your voice soft but leaving no room for argument. “You’re too tired. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

For a moment, Matt hesitated. He wasn’t one to give up control easily, and you knew that. But his eyes flicked over to yours, catching the concern written all over your face, and something in him relented.

“Alright,” he sighed, signaling to pull off at the nearest rest stop. “But if anything happens to my car—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to your car,” you interrupted, already unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ve got this.”

Once you swapped places, Matt moved to the passenger seat, reclining the seat almost immediately. You glanced over at him as you adjusted the mirrors, seeing the way his eyes were already half-closed. He was barely holding on.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice low and sleepy. “I owe you one.”

“Just rest,” you said, your heart softening at how drained he looked. “You’ve earned it.”

Matt closed his eyes, and within moments, he was out cold. You smiled to yourself, turning your attention back to the road. From the backseat, Nick and Chris had resumed their banter, but their words faded into the background as you focused on driving. The car felt different with you at the wheel, but in a good way—you were in control now, and Matt could finally rest.

As the miles passed, the sky darkened, stars dotting the horizon. Every so often, you would glance over at Matt, peaceful in his sleep. It was moments like this that reminded you how much he took on for his brothers, always the one to shoulder the responsibility, even when it wore him down.

And, you realized with a quiet smile, you didn’t mind stepping up for him when he needed it most.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry

[volt44ge]

the calm before the storm.

oliver bearman (F1) x social media admin!reader

⋆˙⟡ When the weather puts the Japanese GP to a halt, two rookies—one behind the wheel, the other behind the screen—find quiet comfort in unexpected company.

word count: 1,227

notes: fluff, slow-burn, anxious reader and comforting Ollie, a new garage duo in the making…?

a/n: MY FIRST EVER FIC IVE EVER WRITTEN PLS BE NICE english isnt my first language either and this wasn’t proofread but enjoy!!

Being back in Suzuka meant dealing with one of the more demanding circuits on the calendar. Between the technical corners, long straights, and ever-shifting weather, it was a beast of its own. And today, as predicted all week, ithe rain hadn’t stopped from the moment you woke up. Puddles glistened along the pit lane, and the clouds showed no signs of clearing.

Just a few hours earlier, race control has confirmed to each teams that the race will be delayed.

Inside the garage, the atmosphere was oddly calm. Some teams are going through last-minute race strategies, some are milking content whilst having their drivers stuck in place, and some just laughed over card games and half-finished cups of instant coffee. It was that rare kind of lull where the usual tension of race day fizzled into something quieter.

Your marketing director had just wrapped up a last-minute team “discussion”— nothing too pressing, just a rundown of deliverables and content expectations for the upcoming week. As your colleagues scattered back to their corners of the garage to proceed on their assigned content, you remained in the hallway, staring at your spreadsheet with dread.

“How do I even finish this in less than 48 hours…?” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through piles of tasks that were apparently “light” enough for a newbie like you.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a figure approaching. Tall, rain-slicked curls still drying, and hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

“Tea?” he asked, voice soft, almost hesitant. He held the mug out towards you. You captured a quick glance of the label hanging by the side. Earl Grey, your favorite.

You blinked. “Sure, yeah… Thank you.”

He offered a small, warm smile. “I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself, I’m Oliver. Well… Ollie, I guess.”

You smiled back, already warmed by more than just the tea. Real humble, you thought. “Yeah, I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity of working together yet. I’m Y/N”

“I don’t think i’ve seen you around last season— you’re new?”

You knew that Ollie has been around the garage longer than you since he’s had the opportunity to race with Haas a couple of times the previous season.

“Yeah. Joined at the start of the year,” you nodded awkwardly. “Just trying my best to get familiar around the team… It’ll take some time,” you blushed.

You earned a soft giggle from him. “Hey, same. Rookie year for me too. I guess we’re both just trying to survive.”

There was a brief pause—comfortable, but not awkward—as the rain pattered steadily against the roof above.

“No, yeah, I’m sure you’ll get by just fine,” he added, tone sincere.

Ollie turned towards the little makeshift common room tucked just down the hallway—a few worn couches, a monitor with the live broadcast muted, and scattered paper cups of half-empty coffee and tea from the rest of the crew. He took a seat on the corner of the couch, then looked up and patted the space next to him, inviting you.

You followed, tea in hand, and sat down.

“How’s it going with all the team content stuff?” he asked, taking a quick peek at your screen.

“Eh, I don’t know. I mean… it’s going I guess…?” you sighed, flipping the iPad around so he could take a better look at your spreadsheet. “Supposedly these are all the “lighter” tasks for me since I’m new, but I really don’t get how all of this translates to ‘light’”

Ollie leaned in to scan it. His eyebrows shot up. “This is the ‘light’ stuff?”

“Right?” you laughed, half exasperated, half-grateful you got yourself someone who understands you. “Apparently I’m expected to shoot, edit, upload, and copywrite for I-don’t-even-know-how-many languages in less than 48 hours, but yeah sure. Light.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I thought racing was intense. Yeah… good luck with all that.”

You shrugged, still smiling. “Yeah thanks. I mean… Can’t complain too much since I’m more than grateful to be here… But yeah! Guess we’re both getting thrown into the deep end.”

There was something comforting in it—in sharing that unspoken understanding. You were both new. Still uncertain in your own unique ways. But sitting here, face to face, sipping tea while the rain fell in steady sheets outside, it felt as though everything’s going to be just fine.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Well, if you ever need a break from all that—someone to film, or just someone to complain to—I’m probably lurking around somewhere.”

You met his eyes for a second longer than before. “Thanks, Ollie. I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “I hope you do.”

Ollie gave you a sideways glance. “So… if you’re handling all those lighter stuff, does that mean you’re responsible for editing those silly TikToks of me and Esteban then?”

You laughed, covering your face with your hand. “You caught me, yes. I understand if you’re not going the forgive me.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made your stomach flutter unexpectedly. “Look, I must admit it was good content. Very Gen-Z, you definitely know what you’re doing.”

You smiled into your tea, grateful for how easy it felt to sit here with him. There was something nice—strangely grounding—about talking to someone your age in the garage, who was also still figuring things out. His presence calmed the chaos buzzing in your brain.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, nudging your elbow with his. “If you ever need help with filming, I mean it. You know how they say that drivers are usually the worst when it comes to social stuff, but… I don’t mind”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you. volunteering yourself as tribute?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged with a smirk. “You seem like you need a win.”

You were just about to respond—something teasung, something to match the warmth rising in your cheeks—when a voice crackled through the team radio behind the wall.

“Attention all crew members—race control is monitoring a weather window. Be on standby. We’ll provice further updates in fifteen.”

Just like that, the stillness shifted.

Outside, engineers began quietly mobilizing. Crew members started moving with purpose again, checking the tire sets and adjusting strategy sheets. The rain hadn’t stopped but the buzz of maybe soon was starting to fill the air.

Ollie straightened slightly, stretching his arms. The calm before the storm—literally—was over.

“Well,” he said, standing and offering you his hand, “looks like they’re calling us back to life.”

You took it, letting him pull you off the couch with surprising ease.

“Guess the peace was short-lived,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your shirt, when really you were just trying to steady your nerves.

“Hey,” He said, catching your gaze before you turned. “Seriously, don’t let all that content eat you alive just yet. You got this”

Your heart tugged at the unexpected softness in his voice. You gave a small smile. “And you—Don’t let Suzuka chew you up out there.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

As the boy jogged lightly back toward the main garage area, you stood for a moment longer, watching him disappear into the chaos, still clutching your half-empty tea.

It was nothing. Just small chat.

Just two rookies killing time in the rain.

And yet… your chest felt a little lighter.

part 2…?

[supernotnatural2005]

'Ride em' Cowgirl'

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY, swearing, fluff.

AN: Here it is, the requested part 2 of my 'Giddy up Cowboy' Drabble. I'm blown away by all of the love and support on my work lately and had to give you something tasteful in return for all your lovely appreciation. I hope you enjoy ☺️

Tagging: @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog and @rizlowwritessortof

Main Masterlist

The ride back to the motel feels like an eternity. The engine of the Impala hums beneath you, a comforting sound you’ve grown used to over the past few months of hunting with the Winchesters. But tonight, that familiar hum does little to calm the storm that’s building in the air between you and Dean.

Sam sits in the passenger seat, blissfully unaware of the electricity crackling in the space between you and his older brother. His head is turned slightly, eyes focused on his phone as he scrolls through something, probably researching the next hunt. He’s completely oblivious, lost in his world, but you and Dean? You're both caught up in something far more dangerous.

You shift in your seat, the leather of the Impala's interior squeaking slightly beneath you, but it’s nothing compared to the way your body is reacting to the proximity of Dean, to the memory of the words you said back at the bar. "I think I can ride him better." The double meaning of the comment, the tease that you’d laid on him, was still hanging heavily in the air.

You glance at him, his profile visible from the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too hard, and you can’t help but notice the way his bicep flexes with the tension. The urge to reach over and touch him, to bridge that last bit of space between you, is almost overwhelming.

Sam’s voice pulls you from your thoughts as he glances over his shoulder, a slight grin on his face. “You two are awfully quiet. You sure everything’s alright?”

Dean clears his throat, his voice low, a little too steady. “Yeah, we’re fine, Sammy. Just tired.”

Sam nods, not catching the edge in his brother’s voice, and goes back to whatever he’s reading on his phone. You, however, catch the way Dean’s eyes flicker to you—a brief glance, but enough to make your pulse quicken. You feel that familiar heat rise between you both, the kind that only the two of you understand.

Every mile feels like it stretches on forever. You catch Dean’s gaze again, and this time, his eyes linger a little longer, something raw and unspoken in them. You know he’s struggling to keep his composure, just as you are.

Finally, the motel comes into view. The neon lights of the sign flicker, the soft hum of the parking lot filling the quiet car. Sam lets out a loud yawn and stretches, oblivious to the way the tension between you and Dean has reached its breaking point.

“Man, I’m pretty beat.” Sam says, giving you both a tired smile as he climbs out of the car. You and Dean follow suit, both of you stepping out with a quiet but unmistakable urgency.

Dean’s hand brushes against yours as he walks you to your room—just a few doors before his and Sam’s, and it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. You both stand there for a moment, looking at your motel room door in front of you, the unspoken weight of everything you've both been avoiding for so long finally sinking in. 

Sam walks on ahead, muttering something about needing to “hit the hay,” and you both watch as he disappears into the room before Dean turns to you, his voice low and controlled. 

"You weren’t kidding earlier, huh?”

"No," you say, your voice just above a whisper, because you can’t take it anymore, and it’s enough to send the heat between you two spiralling. "I wasn’t.”

Dean doesn’t need any more encouragement. He moves first, closing the distance between you two with a single, decisive step. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate—like he’s been holding back everything he’s been feeling for far too long. 

His mouth is warm and insistent, and you open up to him instinctively, your hands finding their way to the open fabric of his flannel, pulling him even closer. 

You moan into the kiss, clinging to him as if he were your last source of oxygen. Consuming what he was willing to give as long as he was willing to give it. Dean’s hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave small fingerprint indents when your tongue slides past his lips. His responding groan is low, bordering on a growl, and he walks you back against your door, his hands unable to stay in one place for too long. 

His touch, his scent, and his delectable mouth were quickly descending you into a state of ecstasy. You were already hooked and desperate for more. 

“Inside.” You mumble against his lips, and he offers you a curt nod before he breaks the kiss, allowing you a moment to breathe as you turn to unlock your door. He’s already pressing himself against you from behind, his hands wandering from your hips to boldly cupping your breasts over your thin t-shirt, beneath your jacket.

It takes you until your third try before you finally stumble inside. Dean quick to kick the door shut with his foot as he ravishes your neck with wet kisses and thumbs at your pebbled nipples poking through your lace bra, risen from both his ministrations and the cool air.

You push back against him and gasp at the feel of his obvious arousal through his jeans. His reaction to you sent a thrill of excitement through you as well as a feeling of pride swelling in your chest. 

"Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” Dean pants into your neck as you roll your hips against him. He presses into you with each roll, making his eyes roll back and his hands move to find purchase on your hips again. 

“I think I have some notion.” You quip with one last push back against him before turning in his arms. You offer him a sly smile and look up at him through your lashes as you trail and hand down his firm chest and over his toned stomach before cupping him through his jeans. His hips instinctively thrust into your palm, and you grant him some relief by adding pressure and rubbing your hand along his length. 

His gaze is stormy as he looks down at you, watching you watch your own hand grope him in wonder. It was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. Suddenly, he pulls your hand from him, the feeling both incredible yet frustratingly not enough, and you look up at him in question, but he’s quick to reclaim your lips again. 

The urgency from before is back with a vengeance as you claw at each other’s clothes, peeling away layers upon layers between heated kisses, until finally, you’re left in nothing but your panties, and Dean in his boxers. 

His gaze roams over you unapologetically, taking in every curve and scar; your heaving breasts on display with a hunger you’d never seen in another man's eyes before. But there was more behind his desire. There was a look of longing, of wanting this for so long and finally having it, simmering within those pools of green. And you understood. Because you felt the exact same. 

As if in sync, you reached for one another again. Dean’s hands framed your face as he dipped down to kiss you again. This time softer, more tender, making you all but melt into his arms. He walked you backwards, never parting his lips from yours, until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the mattress. 

You pulled away from him then and climbed up onto the bed, with him quickly following, crawling up and over you like a predator stalking his prey. Your head fell back onto the pillows as his firm body covered yours, his mouth quickly attaching itself to your neck, kissing, sucking, and nibbling at the tender flesh until you were bucking your hips up against him. 

He smirks into your neck, loving the fact you were so reactive to him, even by the simplest of touches. He decides to give you some relief and trails his mouth down your body, stopping at your chest. He waited for you to look at him, his warm breath fanning over your perked nipple, and only when you finally meet his gaze does he wrap his lips around your pebbled nub. 

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, watching his eyes fall shut as he sucked and nibbled at your nipple. The sensation was almost overwhelming, and your hips ground for any kind of friction to relieve the building ache between your legs. Your hand slid into his hair, pulling harshly at the soft spikes atop his head, making him groan, and the vibration sent tiny shocks of pleasure throughout your nerve endings. 

He moves onto your other breast, the wetness of your abandoned nipple cooling against the air conditioning unit, softly buzzing in the background, the feeling only adding to the incredible pleasure his mouth was giving your other breast. 

“Fuck, Dean.” You gasp, just as his left hand trailed down your side and sneakily slipped into your panties. Two of his thick digits were quick to find your clit and you shuddered from the contact. He begins to circle your bundle of nerves slowly, much like the motion of his tongue against your nipple. 

You fist his hair again, moaning loudly as he dips an experimental finger into your soaked hole, gathering your wetness and resuming his attention back on your clit. 

“You’re so wet, baby.” He grunts against your chest, frowning in concentration as he picks up his pace. “That all for me?” All you could do was nod and then cry out as his fingers rubbed you faster, sending jolts of pleasure down to the tips of your toes, which soon curled as your body began to tense. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You repeated it like a mantra, the coil in your belly wound tight and ready to spring. 

“That’s it, baby. Cum all over my fingers.” He husks in your ear, and you look down your body, watching the muscles in his forearm dance with effort from the maddening pace of the hand buried deep in your underwear. The sight was your undoing, and your whole body stiffened. Mouth dropping open in a silent scream, the sound trapped in your throat as your body convulsed and shuddered against him. 

Dean’s hand began to slow with your descent into bliss, coming to a complete stop once you deflated back onto the mattress, completely boneless. 

“Holy shit.” You huffed with an incredulous chuckle because, holy shit. You’re not even sure you’d ever come so hard with your own hand. And if just his fingers could bring you so much pleasure, it left you wondering what else you were in store for. Although you didn’t have to wonder for much longer when Dean shifted beside you and you felt the straining press of his cock against your thigh. 

You turned to him and cupped his cheek with your right hand, pulling him into a slow and sensuous, grateful kiss. He hummed happily against your lips as you rolled him onto his back. His arms coming up to wrap around you, to keep you close as you took his breath away. 

With him distracted, you grasped his tented length, massaging him as best you could through the fabric of his boxers. He broke the kiss and dropped his head back against the pillows, eyes shut tight as you relieved some of the pressure. 

You smiled devilishly at him and rose to your knees beside him. He watched you in wonder as you peeled the last item of clothing from him, helping you by lifting his hips. Your eyes widened in both shock and amazement at the sight of him. Your mouth watered and pussy throbbed, desperate for a taste, for the feel of him inside you. 

You gathered him in your hand, relishing in the warm weight of his impressive cock. Dean released a deep sigh at the feel of your delicate hand slowly, teasingly pumping him. He was as hard as granite, throbbing in your hand, and you marvelled at the way your simple movements had him panting, wanting and desperate beneath you. 

Laying comfortably between his parted thighs, You ran your tongue along the length of him. The deep, responsive moan from him giving you the encouragement to do it again and again until he was slick with your saliva and fisting the sheets beneath him tight. 

“Holy.. shit.” Dean gasped as you took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his silky head before sinking your mouth onto him. The action brought with it a salty tang and a variety of praises and profanities. Between your legs, a new wave of wetness coated your already ruined underwear as you worked him over in your mouth and with your hand. 

Looking up at him, he was a sight to behold. His skin glistening, chest heaving, sinful lips parted, and eyes squeezed shut. He was beautiful in every scenario it seemed. 

“Oh God.” Dean’s eyes snapped open then, his body tensing, and he quickly sat up, pulling you from him. You looked at him alarmed, wiping at the spit collected at the corners of your mouth. 

“What? What’’s wrong?” You lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to take a few deep breaths before he released a breathless chuckle.

“You were about to make me cum.” He told you honestly, and you blushed a little, but wondered why he’d stopped you? 

“And?” You giggled softly, though squeaked, when he suddenly manhandled you into his lap. You had to bite back a groan at the feel of his hard length bumping against you through your panites. 

“And? I was promised a ride.” His voice is low and sultry, but his face is filled with his usual boyish, giddy excitement. You giggled and shook your head, realising you’d somehow fallen for a complete dork. 

You cup his scruffy cheeks in your palms and plant a warm kiss against his lips, the smiles on your faces quickly fading as your tongue swept against his, reigniting the ache between your legs and the need for more. 

You reluctantly pull away and slide off of him, removing and kicking away your underwear before climbing back onto him. He welcomes you eagerly, claiming your mouth once again with a kiss filled with passion and ignition. 

You slowly guide him onto his back and pull away breathless. His hands slide from your back to your hips as you sit up, grinning down at him. His green eyes look up at you, dark and entranced, roaming over every inch of you in amazement. 

You bite down on your lip as you settle against him, the wet seam of your pussy covering his length, making you both groan at the contact. You roll your hips experimentally, your head falling back as you steadied yourself against his firm stomach, picking up your pace until you were slick and ready. 

“Fuck sweetheart. You’re a dream.” Dean says breathlessly and with an honest gaze. You smirk down at him, slowing your roll, and he watches you. 

“I think it’s time I make do on that promise.” You tell him. “Think I can last the full 90 minutes?” You tease, and Dean chuckles, rubbing lovingly at your thighs, hips, and up your sides. 

“I have no doubts, baby.” 

In one swift movement, you rise up on your knees and grasp his length, angling him just right before you sink down onto him. Both of your mouths drop open in respective pleasure. You’re slick enough to take him most of the way, only rocking gently a few times until he’s fully sheathed. 

“Fuuck.” He moans, and it’s long and drawn out because Dean can’t quite fathom the feeling of you wrapped tightly around him. He’s been to heaven, hell, and everything in between, but this was something else entirely. The best pie he’d ever tasted, the feeling he got behind the wheel of baby—all things paling in comparison to this moment.

Once the initial stretch of him blurred from pain into pleasure, did you then rise up and slowly slide back down, gasping in almost disbelief at the incredible feel of him inside you. You repeated the movement again and again until you built up a steady rhythm, rocking, rolling, and grinding your hips to find the most intense spots of pleasure. 

All the while Dean let you ride him, watching in awe as you did in fact “ride him better." However, to give you a challenge, he bucked his hips up into you, meeting you thrust for thrust. You held on tightly, eyes rolling back at the much harsher thrusts hitting you just right, but you weren’t about to let him win. 

With one hand firmly planted on his chest, you leaned back, reaching your arm around to fondle his balls. Dean jolted in surprise but moaned deep and loud as you gently caressed them in your palm. You smiled in triumph as he relinquished his thrusts, and you sped up your movements, feeling his balls draw tight. 

“Oh, fuck, oh shit.” His words were breathless and strained as his body tensed, brow furrowing, hands gripping tight onto your hips as he came. Hard. You felt his warm seed coat your walls along with a long, deep groan as you circled your hips, milking every last drop. 

You grinned down at him as he collapsed back onto the bed, panting hard and weightless. You could feel him still twitching inside you, and you involuntary clenched at the sensation, making his head pop back up to look at you. 

His eyes were wild, his chest flushed red, and wordlessly he slid a hand over to your lower stomach, his thumb pressing against your sensitive clit, making you gasp. Dean’s eyes closed at the feeling of you clenching around him but began circling your clit with the digit, watching on in admiration as you slowly rocked your hips into his hand, chasing your own sweet release. 

Dean was a generous lover, but you’d given him a run for his money in that department tonight. It was only common curtesy he had you come again. Even if your pussy was all but strangling his sensitive cock, it felt incredible—a sensation he’d never felt before. He could feel himself hardening again at just the sight and feel of you, surprising you as much as himself. 

“Oh God.” You cried out, your walls fluttering around him as you ground into his hand, his thumb flicking against your clit, harder and faster until you were shaking above him. Then he thrust his hips up, once, twice, three times, and you were falling apart. Your body tensed and twitched above him, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as the white hot pleasure of your orgasm rippled through you.  

“Shit.” Your eyes popped open when you felt it. Warmth spread inside you for a second time as Dean cried out in painful pleasure. Holy shit was all that you could comprehend as he tensed beneath you. 

Shocked silence filled the room as you both stared at one another, catching your breaths, until a chuckle of disbelief slipped from his lips, triggering your own laughter.  

You fell onto his chest, letting his soft cock slip from you with a slight hiss from him. You soothed a hand a long his chest, planting a sweet kiss there before leaning up and coming face to face with him. 

"So, was I…Better?” You wondered curiously, whilst absently playing with his mused, sweat slicked hair. Dean grinned in response and cupped your jaw tenderly. 

"Oh, you so were." He replied before pulling your lips to his. 

AN: Okay so this one was just pure smut! 😂 but let me know what you think? Was this a good tie up for these two 👀

[gf2bellamy]

part five: opportunity synchronicity

— ★ opportunity knocked softly this time, dressed in shared music, fortune cookies, and a bookstore on a rainy afternoon—and for once, spencer didn’t hesitate to answer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Spencer's mind had been spinning for months—a whirlwind of unsaid words and aborted confessions, each one dying on his tongue before it could take flight.

He was staring at the polaroid on his desk—the one from Garcia's apartment, now framed and positioned just so—when Hotch's voice cut through his daydreaming.

"Reid. My office."

The conference invitation should have been routine. But then Hotch mentioned Delaware, which was three hours away.

"You’ve been asked to speak at a conference," Hotch said, sliding a folder across his desk.

Spencer’s interest piqued. "Really? Where? What about?"

"Delaware. Forensic advancements in cold case resolution."

"Three hours," Spencer murmured automatically, his mind already cataloging potential references, studies, case studies—

"Who else is invited?" The last conference he’d attended had been with Emily, her dry commentary balancing his tendency to ramble.

Hotch steepled his fingers. "Just you."

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. "No one?" 

He didn’t mind presenting alone—he could talk for hours about his work—but the idea of driving three hours in silence, of spending the night in some generic hotel without the familiar buffer of a teammate…

"You can invite someone." Hotch's tone was carefully neutral, but the implication hung between them like a held breath.

It was as close to interference as Aaron Hotchner would ever allow himself. But even he—a man who treated office gossip like a biohazard—had limits. And watching the two of you orbit each other for so long, caught in some agonizing gravitational pull, had apparently reached them.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. The decision was already made. Had been made, really, the moment the words left Hotch's lips.

There was only ever one choice. Only one person he wanted beside him.

Only ever you.

The invitation had tumbled out before he could overthink it—and of course you'd said yes. Of course you'd grinned that sunrise-bright grin and declared, "God, yes, I need a break from work."

Now, an hour into the drive, your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against your thigh as the countryside blurred past your window.

"Is it my turn yet?"

Spencer didn't need to check the dashboard clock. He knew exactly how long it had been since you'd last controlled the radio—twenty-seven minutes. The rules of your road trip playlist rotation had been established with near-constitutional precision after your third bickering match outside Baltimore.

Technically, he still had three minutes left with his science podcast.

He took one look at your pout—the one that always made your nose scrunch adorably—and surrendered. "Sure. It's your time."

Your triumphant sound filled the car as you lunged for the dial, scrolling through stations. When the opening chords of that song spilled from the speakers, your entire body lit up.

"My favorite song!" you crowed, already humming along.

The opening chords punched through the speakers, and Spencer's grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled.

Your song.

The one that had played the morning of the grocery run. The anthem of his awakening, the soundtrack to every synchronicity that had led him here—to you, to this car, to this moment.

The drive could have lasted days and Spencer wouldn't have minded—not with you in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking.

Two hours later, Delaware welcomed you with a barely lit hotel lobby and an elderly receptionist who peered over her glasses with knowing eyes.

"One room or two?"

Spencer's throat went dry. His fingers twitched at his sides as he turned to you—only to find you already answering, your voice steady despite the way your thumb worried at the ring he'd given you.

"One."

You didn't look at him. Didn't explain. Just gave him a look with a nonchalance that would've been convincing if not for the way your ring almost slid off your finger.

The receptionist's smile deepened as she took in Spencer's flushed ears, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Here are your keys," she said, handing them over with a wink you pretended not to see.

The elevator ride up was silent. Tense. Electric.

You broke it the moment the door clicked shut behind you, flopping onto the nearest bed with a dramatic sigh. "Finally," you groaned into the duvet, kicking off your shoes as Spencer hovered near the desk, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of space between you.

He busied himself with the room service menu, if only to stop imagining how your hair looked fanned out against the pillows. "What do you want to eat?"

What followed was a familiar routine—Chinese takeout containers spread between you, the scent of sesame oil and sweet-and-sour sauce thick in the air as Spencer outlined his conference talk. You listened with that focus of yours, the one that made him feel like the only person in the world, interjecting with questions that proved you'd been paying attention.

And if your feet occasionally brushed his under the table, if his hand lingered when passing you the soy sauce—well.

The room might've had two beds, but the distance between you had never felt smaller.

"Catch."

The fortune cookie arced through the air, landing neatly in Spencer's palm. You were already cracking yours open, the snap of plastic wrapper loud in the quiet hotel room.

Spencer watched as you unfolded the tiny slip of paper, your lips moving soundlessly as you read:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded."

A beat. Then two. 

Your fingers stilled around the paper, knuckles whitening just slightly. The silence stretched long enough that Spencer's chest tightened—until you finally looked up, offering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Maybe I'll get the raise I asked for," you joked. Your voice was slightly shaky and so was your smile. 

Spencer knew deflection when he heard it.

"What does yours say?" You nudged his foot, the contact sending a jolt up his spine.

With careful fingers, he pried his cookie apart. The paper inside was crisp against his skin as he smoothed it out:

"What you seek is seeking you — watch for the signs."

The air left his lungs in a rush. When he dared to meet your gaze, he found you already staring—both of you wearing identical, awkward smiles.

"Sounds like a threat," you giggled, the sound slightly strained.

A threat from the universe, Spencer thought.

Or perhaps a promise.

The night stretched endlessly, the space between your two beds feeling both infinite and insufficient. Sheets tangled around restless limbs, pillows were punched into submission—neither of you slept, though neither spoke of it. 

Morning came too soon.

You watched from your perch on the edge of the bed as Spencer paced, reciting his presentation under his breath for what must have been the twentieth time. His fingers danced along an invisible keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The nervous energy radiating off him was palpable.

Seizing the moment, you reached across the chasm between beds, your fingers brushing his restless hand. "Spence," you murmured, your thumb tracing idle circles over his knuckles, "you'll do great."

His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up to meet yours, squeezing gently as he shot you a grateful smile—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach flip.

A glance at his watch shattered the moment.

 "We should go," he mumbled, though his fingers lingered against yours a heartbeat too long.

The conference hall was mercifully close. As you stepped inside, you turned to him with a raised brow. "Where do you want me to sit?"

Spencer's gaze swept the growing crowd before landing on the front row. "Maybe first row?" The request came out softer than intended, barely more than a whisper.

He didn't say why. Didn't need to.

The thought of looking up from his notes and immediately meeting your eyes—your encouraging, loving eyes—was the only anchor he needed.

The conference was a triumph.

Spencer knew his material cold, but it wasn't the crowd that had his pulse racing—it was you. Sitting front and center, your gaze never wavered from him. He caught himself seeking you out between points, not for reassurance, but for the way your eyes lit up each time they met his. That particular smile—the one that started slow before blooming across your face—was becoming his new addiction.

You'd always looked at him like that.

He just hasn't understood why.

The moment he stepped off the podium, you were there, arms wrapping around him before the applause even faded.

"You did so so good, Spencer," you murmured against his shoulder, your breath warm through his dress shirt. When you pulled back, your hands lingered—palms cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks—before reluctantly letting go.

Spencer barely had time to smile at you before others approached with questions, but Spencer felt your presence like a physical thing.

Through every technical discussion, every eager handshake, he was hyper aware of you standing off to the side, smiling that private smile reserved only for him.

As an elderly man with kind eyes approached Spencer, Spencer replied to the questions with his carefully thought out answers. But he couldn’t help himself. His eyes kept darting to you. 

The way you were watching the crowd. The way you smiled proudly when you saw an elderly couple loudly compliment the conference. The way your eyes met his eyes more than once, and the way they would sparkle in ways that no one could cause but Spencer.

Spencer smiled softly as he finished his sentence, realizing he’d probably been rambling distracted for way too long now. He finally looked at the man, who had seemingly followed Spencer’s eyes.

"I remember those times," the man said wistfully, patting Spencer's shoulder. His wedding band glinted in the fluorescent lights. "Don't wait too long."

Spencer opened his mouth—to protest, to explain, to something—but the man just smiled and walked away, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and your name on his tongue.

Across the room, you looked up as if sensing his stare, your eyes crinkling in that way that made his chest ache.

The universe had given him signs. Strangers had given him warnings.

"You're not paying," Spencer insisted for the third time as you dragged him toward the diner, your fingers curled around the crook of his elbow.

"Look how cute it is!" you beamed, ignoring his protest as the neon sign cast pink halos around your silhouette. The booths and checkerboard floors looked straight out of a 1950s postcard—the kind of place Garcia would call "romantic" with that knowing lilt in her voice.

Then the bell above the door jingled, and the universe delivered its coup de grâce.

Your song.

The same one from the car, from the grocery store, from every pivotal moment of his awakening—now piping through the diner's crackling speakers as you chatted animatedly with the hostess.

You didn't even notice, too busy confirming the reservation you'd made the second his conference ended.

Spencer stood frozen in the threshold, the scent of sizzling bacon and maple syrup wrapping around him as Jung's words echoed in his skull: "Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see."

He'd analyzed the concept a hundred times since the dream—poring over texts until his eyes burned, tracing the threads that connected every "coincidence." 

The Buddhist proverb he'd stumbled upon last week floated back to him now: When soulmates meet, it's the culmination of five centuries of cosmic preparation.

Five hundred years of atoms rearranging, of stars collapsing and reforming, all to bring him here—to this chrome-and-vinyl booth where you were currently stealing his fries with that smirk he'd loved across lifetimes.

Rain began pattering against the diner windows as you split the last chocolate chip cookie—because of course you’d ordered them, because the universe seemed determined to weaponize every memory he cherished.

You gazed out at the storm, then back at him with that grin that always made his ribs ache. 

“Drip drop,” you said, crunching into the cookie with relish.

Spencer's stomach flipped. The words—your words, from that rain-soaked night—hung between you.

“Drip drop,” he echoed, the words tasting like nostalgia and longing. His smile faltered—until your ankle hooked around his beneath the table, just as he’d done to you countless times in cafes and briefing rooms. The contact burned through his sock like a brand.

“These are so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs.

Spencer hummed, reaching for another cookie just to have something to do with his hands.

“I do hope you won’t start preferring these over mine, though.” You waved a half-eaten cookie in his face, your eyes glinting with mock severity. “I put a lot of work and love into my cookies, you know.”

"Never," he said immediately, plucking the treat from your fingers with deliberate slowness. His lips brushed your fingertips as he took it, and the sharp inhale you tried—and failed—to hide didn't escape him. "I love your cookies."

Then you grinned, kicking his ankle playfully under the table, and the moment passed—but not the promise thrumming in his chest.

The storm raged through the night—rain splashing against the windows that faded into white noise while you played chess with Spencer's travel set, your knees pressed together beneath the coffee table. 

He let you win. You pretended not to notice.

Morning brought no reprieve. Rain still splashed against the glass when Spencer appeared at your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I don't think it's safe to drive home," he murmured.

You hummed in agreement, watching water cascade down the pane.

"There was a bookstore next to the conference building," he added casually—too casually, the way he always did when trying to sound spontaneous about things he'd clearly researched in advance.

"Of course you noticed that," you laughed, already reaching for your jacket. When you tossed him his scarf—the one he'd worn religiously since that fateful morning—his hands fumbled to catch it, the wool soft and familiar between his fingers.

The walk was a disaster. Within minutes, the downpour had soaked through your coats, your hair plastered to your foreheads as you splashed through ankle-deep puddles. The bookstore owner glared when you dripped across her threshold.

"As if it's our fault it's raining," you muttered under your breath, wringing out your sleeve.

Spencer shot you that boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—the one reserved for moments when you were being "adorably incorrigible"—before offering the owner a sheepish apology.

You drifted apart naturally, pulled toward your respective genres like planets orbiting the same sun.

From the philosophy section, Spencer watched you trail fingers along fantasy spines, your lips moving silently as you read titles. Yet every few minutes, one of you would glance up—searching, always searching—until your eyes met across the stacks.

The rain drummed its approval against the roof.

And for the first time, Spencer wondered if storms had souls—if this one had waited centuries just to strand you here, together.

Time slipped through the bookstore's aisles like sand through fingers. Spencer found himself in the classics section, fingers trailing over worn spines until they caught on a rare edition of The Importance of Being Earnest.

The discovery sent a jolt through him—the same play whose quote you'd scribbled on his cookie note what felt like lifetimes ago. His thumb traced the gilded title with reverence, the memory of your looping handwriting surfacing.

"Hello." Your voice at his shoulder startled him. 

Before he could turn, your cheek came to rest against his upper arm, warm even through his damp sweater. The contact sparked a dizzying sense of déjà vu—your weight against him in the dream-library, your breath ghosting over the same spot as you handed him that fateful blank book.

"Whatcha looking at?" you murmured, tilting your head to peer at his find.

Spencer swallowed hard before raising the book for your inspection. "Oscar Wilde," he managed, voice thick. His gaze dropped to the volume in your hands. "What did you get?"

When his gaze dropped to the notebook in your hands, his breath hitched. Gold filigree curled across its cover in the exact same pattern as the book from his dream library—the one you'd handed him with that devastating promise: "This one gets filled after you admit it to me."

You lifted your head slowly—too slowly. "Just a pretty notebook," you said, cracking it open with deliberate care.

Blank pages.

Just like before. Just like always.

"It's pretty," he managed, though the words weren't about the book at all.

You went very still, your smile faltering nervously when you saw the affectionate look in his eyes . "Yeah," you agreed softly, your gaze locking with his. "It is."

The moment stretched, the air between you charged with everything unsaid.

And Spencer was suddenly, terrifyingly certain that if he didn't speak now, he might never find the courage again.

But then your gaze darted nervously past his shoulder—then froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer turned just as you reached toward the shelf, your fingertips hovering near a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. There, perched on the spine like a punctuation mark, sat a single ladybug.

"It must be hiding from the rain," you murmured, gently coaxing it onto your finger with the same care you reserved for his favorite books and Garcia's trinkets.

Spencer's breath caught.

The ladybug from your hair clip.

The ladybug from Garcia's book.

The ladybug that had been haunting him for so long now.

"It's so cute," you whispered, returning it to its perch with a tenderness that shattered his last thread of restraint.

When you turned back to him, a smile still playing on your lips, you found Spencer staring at you with raw, unfiltered wonder—like you'd hung the moon and every star in your wake.

Then the words burst forth like a dam breaking:

"I'm in love with you." The confession tumbled out in a rush. "And I think I have been for—for forever, and the universe keeps screaming at me about it, and at first I thought they were coincidences but there are too many, and—"

Your lips silenced his.

For one heart-stopping moment, Spencer stood frozen—every synapse short-circuiting at the warmth of your mouth against his. Then instinct overrode shock, and his hands cradled your face like something precious, kissing you back with all the tenderness of a man who'd waited lifetimes for this.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and grinning, the ladybug spread its wings and took flight—as if its work here was done.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips still tingling from the kiss. You met his gaze with a smile that could power cities, your fingers curled tight in the fabric of his vest.

Then you remembered the fortune cookie's promise.

"Guess my patience has been rewarded," you murmured against his mouth, feeling his breath hitch.

Spencer made a soft, questioning noise, his dazed eyes dropping back to your lips like he couldn't quite believe they'd been there moments before.

"I've been in love with you forever, you dummy," you confessed, tugging him closer by his lapels. "I've been waiting ages for you to do this."

"Really?" The word came out strangled, hopeful.

"Really."

That was all the confirmation he needed. Spencer surged forward, capturing your lips in a series of breathless, giddy pecks between stumbling words:

“I have—” kiss “—been so—” kiss “—scared—” kiss “—to do this.” kiss “But also—” kiss “—I never want to stop.”

You were giggling now, your fingers in his hair, and he was smiling so much he could barely kiss you properly, but neither of you cared.

Each press of his lips felt like a promise, each aborted sentence a love letter years in the making. The ladybug had long since flown away, but its message lingered in the space between your shared breaths.

A thousand kisses later—or perhaps only thirty, though Spencer had lost count somewhere between the philosophy section and the hotel elevator—you lay tangled together in bed as he recounted every cosmic sign.

"I was wearing a pink version of your sweater in your dream?" you asked, chin propped on his chest as you studied him. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes, turning them molten. "Why?"

Spencer's cheeks flushed that endearing shade of pink you'd come to adore. "Well, chromatology suggests pink symbolizes affection and love in dreams," he began, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. "There was a 1978 study where—"

You pressed a fingertip to his nose, silencing the impending lecture. He blinked, then huffed a laugh.

"I think I still need to get used to this," he admitted, his breath catching as your fingers wandered across his collarbone.

You sat up abruptly. "In a good or bad way?"

"Good," he said too quickly, scrambling upright. The headboard creaked as he leaned against it, watching you. "Obviously good."

A beat of silence. 

"What?" you grinned, crossing your legs beneath you.

Spencer's blush deepened. "When did you—" He stopped. His eyes darting to the wall behind you. You grinned.

"—start liking you?" you finished, scooting closer until your knees brushed his. At his nod, you pretended to consider. "Probably at Garcia's apartment."

His eyebrows shot up. "The Polaroid?" The realization lit up his face like sunrise. "You're telling me your descent into lov—mmph!"

Your finger against his lips cut him off, though his triumphant grin remained. He caught your wrist, turning your hand to press a kiss to your palm before intertwining your fingers.

"Yes," you admitted, suddenly shy under his gaze. "You have me falling in love with you captured on a Polaroid."

Spencer's smile could have powered entire cities—that brilliant, boyish grin now shining just for you.

In the quiet that followed, you both stared at your joined hands—his long fingers slotting between yours like they'd been made to fit.

"Seems like ladybugs are our thing," you murmured, thinking of the photograph, the book, all the tiny moments that had led you here.

Spencer brought your knuckles to his lips again. "Yeah," he agreed softly, the word a vow against your skin.

The old Buddhist saying floated back to Spencer as he watched you trace idle patterns across his palm—when you meet your soulmate, remember the act to bring you together was five hundred years in the making.

Five centuries of atoms rearranging.

Of stars collapsing and reforming.

Of every seemingly random choice and chance encounter conspiring across lifetimes to deliver you here—to this moment, this bed, this perfect alignment of souls.

Your fingers stilled against his skin as if sensing his revelation. When you glanced up, Spencer saw eternity in your gaze—the same timeless connection he'd felt when you kissed him in the bookstore, when you laughed over chess, when you wore his sweater like it belonged to you all along.

He cradled your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with reverence. No equations could quantify this. No textbook could explain how every synapse in his brain now burned with the certainty that you'd been written into his DNA long before either of you took your first breath.

You were his.

He was yours.

And five hundred years from now, some version of you would still be finding each other across crowded bookstores and rainy diners and ladybug-kissed moments, because this love wasn't made for just one lifetime.

[calebsdog]

During their college days Caleb was the designated driver for the friend group. He was the best behind the wheel out of all of them. Besides, Caleb enjoys driving. It clears his head while simultaneously giving him something to do.

Early on, one of Caleb's friends asks if he could turn some music on. He agrees, pulling out his phone at the next red light. He scrolls for a moment before clicking on a playlist.

The most dorky pop music known the man blasts from the speaker. The kind of music men wouldn't get caught dead listening to. Mostly out of a fear of being judged by other men for having a girly music taste.

Caleb doesn't get embarrassed as the conversation suddenly goes quiet. Tapping his fingers on the wheel Caleb sits there with a dumb :) type smile. He hums along perfectly in tune. It's a song he's listened to hundreds of times before.

It was the playlist Mc made every time Caleb was driving them somewhere. He let her have full control of the genre and theme. The only condition was you could only add new songs. After a song was added there was no deleting it. Caleb's already gotten attached to it.

He never bothers making a playlist more tailored to his taste in music. It was better to listen to the music you picked out. Vivid memories of glancing over at you in the passenger seat every time the car stopped at a red light. Basking in the sight of your sparking eyes, belting the words without caring to follow the tune. You sang like it was just the two of you in the world.

Driving by himself was nice enough. But it wasn't the same if he wasn't thinking about his passenger princess.