#they’re just so tragic it’s so hot

[ghost-proofbaby]

me to my brain right now

[brookheimer]

this is SO DESERVED like they are not supporting. let’s be real here. BUT!!!! also now they’d be going up against fucking bob odenkirk and rhea seehorn (and also jeremy strong for kieran!) and i think i might kill myself

[neims-skeleton-obsession]

Was looking through the books for any descriptions of skug or his family (as in parents and siblings) because. i wanted to do a design for alive skug

and I’m pleased to announce that all I found- in all 15 books and the grimoire- was that height was varied as shit, some of his siblings are blond, some with darker hair and all of his family is apparently hot. dammit derek. like genuinely even his dad is described as “fair In countenance” or something. skug said he wasn’t too bad looking Val thinks one of his brothers is good looking these are all just ways of saying they’re hot this isn’t useful derek

[wickedhawtwexler]

love being ugly in my mid to late 20’s. every person I vibe with is in a relationship and it’s so funny. like the only difference between us is that you’re hot and I’m not. but of course someone loves you

[augustinewrites]

satoru absolutely does not know how to ride a bike idk how i know this but i know cw: suggestive content, mdni

“that was…good,” satoru settles on, still unable to properly articulate. he whines, still a little lightheaded and breathless as you roll off of him with a laugh, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before tucking yourself into his side.

“just good?” you tease, fingertips gliding over his chest. “if i’d known there was going to be a review, i’d have done that thing with my hips that you like.”

you roll your hips against his thigh, sending a warm chill down satoru’s spine. 

“don’t do that,” he warns, but his face is flushed and he can feel himself getting hard again. “unless you want to leave the kids at your dad’s for another night.”

“oh! speaking of the kids!” your sweet movements stop abruptly, causing him to peek one eye open to send you a long suffering look. “my father bought the kids bikes yesterday, and i told him you’d teach them how to ride them.”

now, it’s no secret that gojo satoru is good at a lot of things. 

he can manipulate the infinity around him and exorcise special grade curses with the flick of his wrist. he knows the words to every avicii song and can make mug cakes that don’t always explode in the microwave. 

there’s only one thing he can’t do. 

“i remember when my dad taught me,” you sigh. there’s a fondness in your eyes as you describe the memory. it’s something special and cherished, and satoru wants that for his kids. 

_____

“this isn’t funny, shoko!” 

“you’re right.”

“thank you—”

“because it’s hilarious. gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer of our time, never learned how to ride a bicycle.” 

she trails off in a fit of laughter. satoru hasn’t heard her laugh like this in a long time, and he’d be ecstatic if her amusement hadn’t come at his expense. 

“i didn’t have anyone willing to teach me!” he tells her, huffing. “it was all cursed technique this and cursed technique that. not to mention bikes are literal death traps on wheels.”

“motorcycles are death traps on wheels. bicycles are for babies,” she corrects, though he can still hear the laughter bubbling in her response. “why’d you even agree to teach them?”

“because she did this super hot thing with her hips, but focus!” he whispers harshly. “i can’t teach the kids how to ride a bike! what if i just bought a car—”

“only you would try to buy a car for an 11 year old.”

“not for megumi. tsumiki’s basically 13. she can start learning so when she’s old enough—”

“so tsumiki is going to learn how to drive before you learn how to ride a bike? you are so tragic,” she snickers. 

well, it sounds lame when she puts it like that.

he looks up when the sound of the shower running stops. “and you’re useless,” he growls into the phone. “i’ll ask nanami.” 

_____

NOT GOJO 

[shoko]: i heard gojo’s teaching the kids how to ride their bikes

[you]: yeah :) i’m so excited!

[shoko]: me too.

[shoko]: can you send videos?

[nanami]: I would also like to see videos. 

[you]: sure. but why the interest?

[shoko]: bcs i care about them and want to celebrate their achievements

[you]: you didn’t come to megumi’s violin recital because you said you valued your eardrums. 

[nanami]: It will be a fun moment to look back on when they’re older. 

[shoko] yeah that ^

[you]: fine i’ll send videos.

______

the sun is just beginning to set and the city beginning to settle when you take the kids to the park. 

“i really think—”

“satoru, we are not teaching megumi how to teleport to school.”

“but if he uses the shadows—”

you thrust a helmet into his hands, stern look shutting him up immediately. 

“fuck,” he mumbles once your back is turned to help the kids. he shoves the helmet onto his head and buckles it tightly.

the kids walk over to him with their little bikes, the huge helmets on their head making them look like bobble heads. 

you document his torture with a quick photo before giving him the floor. 

“riding a bike is…super simple,” he tells them, patting the seat of your bike. “you get on, put your feet on the pedals, and…pedal.”

the kids only stare at him, confused looks on their cute faces. 

“maybe you should just show them,” you suggest. 

“why don’t you show them?” he quickly deflects. please please please—

“no! i’m taking the video!” 

fuck.

satoru grips the handles of the bike tightly. he’s faced the worst of the worst, died and come back to life. he could ride a stupid bike.

he kicks at the stand your bike is leaning on, getting it up on the fourth kick. he swings his right leg over so he’s straddling the seat, his feet planted firmly on the ground.

it can’t be that hard, can it?

“watch and learn, kids.”

he takes a breath, then pushes off and places his feet on the pedals.

the bike rolls forward slowly. it’s wobbly at best, but he’s doing it. he’s doing it! he picks up a little momentum, heading off into the sunset—

“satoru! don’t lead them downhill!”

sure enough, the path in front of him leads down a slight decline. he squeezes the brakes and jerks to the side, sending him toppling over the bike and into the grass.

as he lays in the grass, dazed, megumi and tsumiki bike right past him. he’s sure the former even rolls his eyes.

“they have training wheels,” he says when you run over to check on him. “they’re cheating—”

“do you not know how to ride a bike?!”

“i never learned,” he grumbles, cheeks blushing at the admission. 

“oh, honey,” you sigh, brushing some grass from his shirt. “why didn’t you just tell me?”

you kiss his brow, unable to hold back your laughter as he pouts. “you were so excited about me teaching them. didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“you could never disappoint us,” you tell him firmly. “now come on, i’ll teach all three of you.”

so you teach him, holding onto the back of his bike until he’s steady, until he’s confident enough to do it on his own. 

he’ll get the hang of it eventually.

[taeyongdoyoung]

summary: your best friend brags complains that he can't get laid due to his huge dick posing a threat to random girls at parties, so you offer to fix his little big problem pairing: soobin x reader genre: smut, best friends to lovers warnings: explicit language, big dick soobin (canon event), size kink, foreplay, eating out, blowjob, hugging, fingering, size training, creampie, consensual intercourse, kissing, aftercare, allusions to death in a sexual context, lowkey possessive soobin at the end author's note: the killa is on my mind 24/7 and im down bad for soobin 25/8 🥵 so i had to get it out of my system somehow 🤷 word count: 2k

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask your best friend when he makes a rather shocking confession as the two of you are sitting in his bedroom after one of your usual anime marathons.

“I wish I was. But I would never lie to you,” Soobin responds truthfully. His big moist eyes look a 100% genuine but it still sounds so...bizarre.

“Let me get this straight…Every time you try to hook up with a girl at one of those parties Yeonjun keep dragging you to, you go to a room, eat them out like the generous, selfless guy you are, and then after you take off your pants, they get scared by your gigantic cock and refuse to have sex, running away in horror?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to explain for the past 10 minutes, yeah,” Soobin confirms with a very adorable pout on his stupid face.

You shake your head in utter disbelief.

“I’m sorry but this is just ridiculous. Any girl would be happy to hook up with a guy that has a huge dick.”

“Well, I guess not any girl ‘cause this shit has happened three times already and I’m at my limit. Why can’t I just get laid?” Soobin bemoans his tragic destiny.

“No, I don’t get it. The least they could do is give you a quickie or something to return the favour. It’s so rude to just sprint away. I can’t believe your cock is that terrifying.”

“Ugh, please stop saying that. It’s so embarrassing,” Soobin covers his face behind his big hands. Hold on a minute…

“If what you’re saying is true, then I think it’s pretty hot. Those girls are surely missing out.”

“Or maybe they’re just looking after themselves. Like…I’m not mad at them for being spooked out, I just wish I could finally get some, you know?” Soobin sighs.

“Death by dick does seem appealing,” you shrug.

“Y/N!” he exclaims.

“Listen, what if I make you an offer? You prove to me that you weren’t exaggerating about your size and I promise I won’t run away and will take care of your…frustrations.”

“Are you seriously suggesting this?” Soobin freaks out. “This could ruin our friendship.”

“I won’t be weird about it, I swear. What do you say?”

“Fuck it. I’m so horny that this actually sounds like a good idea,” Soobin admits. “Can I eat you out first?”

“Erm, if you insist,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.

“I just wanna take care of you, make sure you’re all nice and wet for me,” Soobin explains patiently.

“You really don’t have to,” you reassure him.

“I know but it’d be awkward for me to just whip it out. Please?”

“Oh…okay,” you really can’t imagine saying no when he’s asking you so sweetly. God, what did you get yourself into?

Soobin takes off your leggings and panties in one swift movement and pushes you down gently on the bed so you are in a lying position. He spreads your thighs apart and looks at your pussy, already glistening with wetness caused by the conversation you’ve been having. Soobin smirks but doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that as he dives in, licking and kissing all over you. Fucking hell, if his tongue is capable of making you feel this way, you are slightly unnerved to find out what his cock can achieve. But unlike those girls at the parties, you are determined to never run away from your best friend.

Soon enough, you reach your high, overwhelmed by Soobin’s insane tongue movements and his big hands gripping your thighs. You need a few moments to gather your thoughts and when you are finally able to speak, those are the first words that leave your mouth:

“I think they fleed because you eat pussy like a starved animal. Seriously, what the hell was that?”

Soobin chuckles nervously and runs his fingers through his black hair, pushing it back and exposing his forehead for a bit.

“Trust me, it’s not that.”

“Prove it,” you challenge him even though you are fairly certain he’s telling the truth. Your best friend has never lied to you, so why start now?

Soobin takes off his pants, his hands are shaking and you immediately feel bad. You put your hand on his in an attempt to calm him down.

“Hey, you don’t have to if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I do want this, but after so many failed attempts, I’m so anxious…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Soobin,” you insist and squeeze his hand reassuringly.

His skin complexion looks slightly less pale and your words seem to give him the confidence he so desperately needs. Moment of truth. Soobin takes off his boxers and…Oh damn, he was not exaggerating. He’s not just big, he’s so huge a part of you wonders how is it humanly possible to carry such a weapon around and maintain the gentle, humble composure with which Soobin carries himself.

“You’re not running yet,” he jokes.

“Soob?”

“Y-yeah?” his voice cracks, he is obviously terrified of what you’re going to say.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I finally get why these girls ran away.”

“Oh,” he sounds a little dejected, as if already expecting you to go back on your offer.

“But! That’s not gonna stop me. Just tell me what you want first and I’ll try my best to make you happy.”

“Huh?” Soobin is too flustered to process your words.

“My hands, my mouth, or my pussy, what do you want first?”

“You mean…you’re willing to give me all of them?” he blinks in shock.

This poor, precious boy. Did he really face disappointment so many times that he is now looking a gift horse in the mouth with such uncertainty?

“Just pick, Soobie, I promise I’ll give you anything you need.”

“Um…can you suck me off? Please?”

Gosh, he’s so adorable you want to eat him.

You nod a little too enthusiastically and go down on your knees, taking as much of his cock as you can. It’s a tight fit but what you can’t put inside your mouth you make up for by wrapping your hands around him. You suck and lick and touch him, eager to give him as much pleasure as he did you. Your beloved best friend has obviously been frustrated for a while now because it doesn’t take him long to cum inside your mouth. There is so much you can’t manage to swallow it all despite your valiant efforts and you see some of it falling down your cheeks. You wipe it off with a finger, sticking it into your mouth, grinning widely at Soobin.

“Fuck, you’re incredible. What…how…are you okay?”

He presses his big palm against your cheek and it takes a lot of self-control for you to not melt right there and then.

“I’m great. Did…did it feel good for you?” you ask sheepishly.

You’re not particularly confident about your skills but you genuinely did your best for him.

“Are you crazy? It felt insanely good,” Soobin takes your hand, lifting you up and wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

“I’m glad,” you respond, feeling safer and warmer than ever before in your life.

“Do…you still want to…you know?” Soobin asks.

“If you’re asking whether you can put your cock inside my pussy, then yeah, go for it. As long as it’s something you want, of course.”

You keep reminding him to only do things he’s completely okay with, because you would hate to put your best friend in a situation he doesn’t enjoy just because of your greed.

“I want you so bad, you have no idea. But I think I’ll need to stretch you out a bit, yeah?”

“O-okay,” you quickly agree and in no time, Soobin’s long fingers are inside of your pussy, going deeper than your own have ever been and making you feel things you never even dreamed about.

“How does it feel?” Soobin asks in concern.

“Heavenly,” you admit and just as you’re about to reach your second orgasm, Soobin’s fingers leave you.

“N-no, why’d you do that?” you whine frustratedly.

“Wanna feel you come around my cock.”

As it turns out, you'd like this just as much so you quickly forgive him for ruining your orgasm.

“I think I have a condom in my-“ Soobin starts but you cut him off.

“I’m taking a pill. And I believe we’re both clean, so…”

“You gon’ let me fuck you raw?” Soobin inquires, not wanting to make assumptions.

“Yeah, I trust you,” you reply with conviction.

“You’re a dream,” Soobin chuckles and nudges the head of his cock against your moist entrance. You brace yourself for some level of discomfort and are surprised that it doesn’t come right away. Soobin takes his sweet time getting inside you, making sure you’re okay.

“Fuck, Soob, you're so big,” you moan, already feeling overstimulated.

“This is just the tip, baby,” he explains shyly, which makes you lose your mind.

Soobin goes deeper very slowly, making you feel every inch, stretching you out bit by bit.

“How much more?” you ask somewhat impatiently.

“Just a little bit. Can’t help it that your pussy is so tiny,” he teases you.

“Not my fault your dick is so gigantic,” you bite right back.

“I promise, I'll try my best not to split you in half,” Soobin jokes, which does little to ease your worries, but at the same time only makes you wetter.

“Keep talking to me,” you plead for him.

“Does it hurt?” he wants to know, as he keeps entering you further.

“It’s a good kind of hurt,” you explain, wincing slightly.

Once you’ve gotten used to it, you signal to Soobin that he can start moving and he does just that, fucking into you with an impressive speed. You try to meet him halfway, lifting your hips up for him, melting into one.

“You’re taking it so well, my darling best friend,” Soobin praises you relentlessly.

“Anything for you, Soobie,” you cry out in sweet bliss.

“I’m close,” Soobin confesses soon enough.

“Fill me up,” you beg him, almost in a daze, deeply affected by his overpowering presence.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice and spills his seed inside of you. It feels so good that you cum with him, walls clenching around his enormous dick. Soobin leans down to kiss you, further blurring the lines between friendship and…whatever this is.

Then, he takes his cock out and you realize something far more terrifying than his intimidating size - you are falling in love with your best friend.

Soobin quickly brings a towel and a bottle of water, taking care of you like no one else before. You want to cry, touched by his sweetness and falling even further.

“How do you feel?” Soobin brushes a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I feel…like I'm on another planet,” you confess shakily.

Soobin chuckles, visibly relieved to hear that.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, enveloping you in a hug. His large frame towers over you and if it was anyone else, you’d probably feel slightly threatened. But this is Soobin, and even though he just fucked your brains out, you feel completely safe and protected. Safe enough to be honest about how you feel.

“I know I promised not to be weird about it but…I don’t think I can go back to being friends.”

Soobin pales for a moment, scared of losing you.

“Why not?” he blinks, barely restraining his tears.

“I wanna belong to you,” you try to ease his worries by openly saying what your heart and soul desire.

“Oh…But baby, you already do,” Soobin suddenly beams with excitement. “And I belong to you, too.”

“I think you killed me a little,” you laugh. “Killed my pussy with your big cock and ruined me for other men.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow.

“Bold of you to assume that I’d let other men near your pussy. You’re all mine now.”

The End

[thefiresofpompeii]

the twelfth doctor’s one of those guitarists that doesn’t sing. he just refuses to. it’s not his style, he doesn’t do well to express himself in words when melody and chords can do the trick. you know who *is* the singer of this imaginary all-nuwho-doctor band though? ten. he has all the vibes of a cheeky lead vocalist from some 90s alt-pop-grunge band. i mean, he’s literally jarvis cocker. thirteen’s the drummer, nine is on bass and eleven’s on keys. fifteen i don’t know yet, we’ll have to watch the devil’s chord to decide

as for the master’s rival band, saxon is, in a tragic twist of irony, on the drums, but he can only play in 4/4, so they’re a shitty punk band. missy’s the obligatory Hot Goth Female Bassist — fitting that stereotype plays right into her intense performance of gender. spy is the vocalist and rhythm guitarist: dramatic and theatrical, he makes a show of every phrase…

thinking about this as an au now. that would be cringe. i don’t write aus i don’t write aus i don’t

[notroosterbradshaw]

The Boyfriend Experience - Part 1 / 2

5.6k words of Rooster being your super pretend boyfriend! A few swears, but it’s the Navy, goddammit! The fluffiness should make up for it. 

"I don't see why you just don't take Rooster," Natasha muttered, nodding in his direction next to Payback at the bar, both animated, arms describing manoeuvres like excited little boys. "You guys are friends, he likes food, he obviously likes beer. Probably likes 'em if they're free too," she shrugged as if it was the simplest thing going around.

"Why would Rooster be remotely bothered to be my plus one to a wedding where he doesn't know anyone?"

"You'd be there, you said your sister and her husband are going too. There are three people he knows," she said simply. "He's single and an easy lay. Could be the perfect twofer for you."

"Natasha," you chastised her. "I don't want to sleep with Rooster."

"You've got two eyes," she hinted. "Everyone wants to sleep with Rooster."

"Then you sleep with him," you winked.

"Don't let Hangman hear your jokes," she snickered. "I cannot imagine the carry-on if he does," she looked over your shoulder to him at the darts. Bullseye, each and every time.

"Okay, okay. But look, I've known Rooster since I was a toddler, trust me. Not everyone wants to sleep with Rooster."

"If he knew you were the exception, he'd probably want to remedy that," she smiled as you rolled your eyes, sipping your drink.

"This wedding has just rolled around too quickly. I thought I'd find a way to get a date by now."

"Why did you accept a plus one then?"

"I think I answered a little too flippantly when asked if I needed one..." you admitted with a shrug. "Christa asked in one of those obnoxious, curious teasing voices, 'Are you going to bring a plus one?'"

"I hate those bitches."

"Yeah," you dipped your finger into the froth of your drink and put it to your mouth thoughtfully. "I'm tragic," you announced with a flourish.

"You're not tragic," Natasha said. "We just need to get you back in the game."

"Ew."

"Rooster is still an option."

"Why, in God's name, are you pushing Rooster?" you had to ask.

"He's a nice guy, you could do worse."

Looking across the bar, you asked, "Mickey still dating that girl?"

"Mickey, really?" she asked surprised.

"His smile is perfect. I mean, perfect."

"His dad is a dentist," she told you knowingly.

"There you go," you cracked a smile. "Option?"

"Nope, he is still dating her."

"Shit."

"Look, I'll go ask Rooster. Worst he can say is no..." before you could hiss at her to quit it, she was ducking and weaving through bodies towards him. You watched from your vantage point at the pool table and sighed dismally.  

"Exactly. He can say no," you muttered to yourself, your gaze glued to your drink. Looking up and watching this car crash unfold would be brutal. You could not remember a time you'd ever been more embarrassed.

Natasha squeezed in between her friends as she began to state your case. You peeked a look at Rooster, his eyebrow piqued in interest as he tried to follow her explanation. Eventually, his gaze peered over at you, biting back a very humoured grin. Giving her his attention back, he pulled his beer bottle to his lips and nodded with a nonchalant shrug. Okay, that wasn't a terrible result but also you had no idea what she threw on the table and you were almost scared of the stipulations Rooster may've agreed to.

Payback looked up at you and gave you a 'wtf' face. "What's he got that I don't?" he called across the bar as Natasha pushed him back on his barstool.

"This wasn't my idea," you defended yourself. "Natasha Trace a lunatic."

"Certified crazy," Rooster raised his beer to you.

"That's Lt. Certified Crazy, thank you," she said. "And I got you a date. Get off my ass!"

"I'm sorry, Rooster," you said apologetically as he motioned you over with a wave of his bottle. He certainly didn't appear too perturbed. Grabbing your purse and glass, you made your way to him.

"Me too," Payback mumbled. "We'd be so hot."

"Maybe next time?" you said apologetically.

"I bet you say that to all the boys," he said, faux sadness on his handsome features as he brightened and toasted you. No hard feelings, thank goodness.

"She actually doesn't," Natasha spoke up. "That's why she is in this mess. You literally don't say yes to any dudes."

"You can trash me after I leave," you reminded her thoughtfully, finishing your drink. Dammit.

"I got it," Rooster turned back to Penny, raised your glass to her with a quiet 'please?' and got off his stool, gently holding your side and guiding you onto it. She nodded back to him, while the bar was fairly quiet tonight, she was still serving others. "How did you get yourself in this pickle anyway?" Rooster had to ask. "This is the kind of thing that only happens in rom-coms," he still seemed to be getting off as "fake boyfriend" in your waking nightmare as a bridesmaid for an old high school friend. You honestly hadn't expected to be asked, you'd all gone your separate ways since then, but apparently, your friend had thought the friendship was still strong enough to count you as one of her eight bridesmaids. You weren't sure you had eight girlfriends to even consider something so ludicrous.

"Oh, it's way more embarrassing than it sounds," you admitted.

"I've heard this part already," Natasha announced. "Payback, feel like getting duped twice tonight?" she asked, heading over to the pool table. He shrugged and followed her willingly.

"Look, this is a lot. You don't have to do this if you don't want to," you told Rooster. "Regardless of what Natasha may've threatened you with."

"She didn't have to threaten me," he said and eased his lean frame back against the bar. "It's cool. I'm in town. I don't have to wear my dress whites though, do I?" he asked, a little begrudgingly.

"Oh, God no!" you exclaimed. "It's formal."

"I have a suit," he reassured you, his lips quirking. "Been a while since I wore it though. I was probably in high school," he reckoned, considering it.

"You were a little smaller then," you gently reminded him.

He nodded and hummed. "Thank you for noticing," he joked as you rolled your eyes, laughing, and he adjusted the collar of his silky Hawaiian shirt, ego placated for a moment. His shirts were so him, but gee, they were hideous. You always knew when the girls were talking about him because there would always be a hint in the description of his outfit. It happened a lot. The local girls loved Rooster, and from his reputation, he loved them just as much.

But in the end, he was just a nice guy, a really lovely guy. Friendly, funny when you least expected it, reserved and loyal to a fault but you'd known him so long to consider him anything else. A few years older, when you were kids, you were lumped together with the other juniors. He lost his dad so young (he'd admitted once or twice he didn't have many memories of him anymore) and his mother moved them away, closer to her family for the support of losing Goose and to help to raise Bradley away from the influence of the Navy. He came back to the Island when he was about 18 after his mother had passed. Base was home, but he'd flit in and out of Grandpa's house occasionally. Viper always had a soft spot for Bradley, and always kept a protective eye on him, especially after his fallout with Maverick.

Rooster, while his career progression was slow compared to those his age, was always earmarked to be one of the best.

His rapid progression through the ranks wasn't a huge surprise to anyone. He wanted to make anyone who stood in his way regret their actions, especially Mav, and show them that he was ready, willing and able to be the 1%. But the resentment for how his career was delayed when Mav pulled his papers to the Naval Academy, and remember a night with Rooster in tears as your grandpa tried to appease him and his rage for Mav's actions, had stayed.

"I hope you don't need a new suit," you told him dismally. "I don't want you having to spend anything - "

"Fake girlfriend," he cut you off, teasingly. "If I need a new suit, which I likely will, it's okay," he reassured you. "And it's probably about time, can't rely on the Navy to dress me for the rest of my life," he passed you the drink Penny had made you. "What's that?"

"Sloe Gin Fizz."

"Oh, you're one of those fancy girls," he nodded with a squint. "My imaginary bank account is gonna take a hit, isn't it?" You smiled as he smiled too, finally cracking and relaxing. "You're nervous," he noted.

"What gave it away?" you offered him a sip and he happily tried it. Licking the sweetness off his moustache, he gave you a 50/50 response.

"Don't be nervous. We've known each other far too long to be nervous around each other."

"It's not that, I just kind of wish I didn't accept a plus one and then wouldn't have had to go the stupid lengths to cover my ass."

"Let's just treat it as a bit of fun," Rooster suggested. "If it blows, we come back here and get drunk with people we like."

"Thanks, Roost."

He raised his glass to you. "You're welcome. So... am I allowed to get any phone numbers?"

Caught off guard, the plan was starting to unravel quickly as you noticed Rooster catch the eye of a pretty blonde near the jukebox. "Umm, yeah. Of course!"

He laughed and shook his head. "I'm kidding. I'll be the perfect fake date. No one's gonna know."

Those words would come to haunt you.

At Wedding Central the next weekend, you absent-mindedly played with your phone while chaos ensued around you. You had nothing to be concerned over, your hair and make-up were done, your dress was steamed, and you wouldn't change until everyone else was ready. Rooster had texted a moment ago and you were considering how to respond. ‘I'll see you at the reception - it's still cool I can miss the wedding, right? I won't be later than 7pm. I have to get to the gym, my body is crippled after training today.’

Your heart sank, you'd been fielding questions about him all day, you depended on him to be there tonight. 'Of course'. You texted back diplomatically. You were being ditched for lactic acid build-up, but knew it could be worse if he didn't try and work it off before have arrived... if he arrived at all.

Bradley 🐓: Just give me time to workout real quick, shower and change. I did all the other beautifying yesterday. I'll knock your friend's socks off, I promise. Maybe even yours.

You: It's all good, Rooster. I'll see you when I see you.

Bradley 🐓: I can try and escape earlier?

You: Don't be silly. It's all a bit mad here, hair, make-up, not enough champagne 🥂

Bradley 🐓: Try and have fun! Talk me up, play the game. I'll see you tonight.

"Are you sure he's still coming?" one of the bridesmaids asked as you had just been seated at the reception table. You traced the nameplate reading 'Bradley' and kind of wanted the earth to swallow you whole. It was a little after seven and entrees were starting to be served. It was a fair question, Rooster didn't owe you anything and he could ditch you at any time.

"Excuse me, gentleman, I caught the eye of a really cute bridesmaid before - " you heard a familiar rasp say behind you and you stiffened. He'd finally made it. Turning to that voice you'd know anywhere, you gave him a gentle smile. "Think I've found her," he added, patting the chest of some random dude and striding towards you, walking like he was on a runway. He looked incredible, so different from his usual jeans and shirt, so different from any flight suit. He moved towards you in a dark blue crushed velvet suit jacket, a darker shade of slim leg slacks, a black bow tie and dress shoes. His hair was slicked back, neater than usual, maybe even shorter. "Well, you look beautiful," he smiled fondly and leaned down to kiss you lightly on the corner of your mouth, surprising you. He murmured against your ear and only quiet enough for you to hear, "I know that was a lot, I'm sorry if I took it too far. I'm late, but I'm here now," he paused. "I'm not gonna let you down, okay?"

He gently cupped your chin, his thumb grazing your cheek. That kiss, you were finding it hard to shake off... "You look like a Disney prince," you said before you realised it was supposed to be a thought. His eyes shone with humour as he took his seat beside you, resting an arm on the back of your chair.

He creased into an easy laugh. "Not the look I was going for, not with this god awful mug, but I'll happily take it. Do I have to catch up, have you had a few drinks?" he teased.

"A champagne before the ceremony. Just foot in mouth right now," you touched the material on his lapel and smiled. Soft, so unlike Rooster. If he was anyone else's date tonight, you'd hardly have recognised him. "You look very handsome, Rooster."

"Thank you," he shrugged, a little anxious himself. "Your dress is no way as miserable as you described," his eyes pleasantly drifted over you, he wasn't trying to make you nervous or under his gaze, but to him, you looked spectacular. "You look amazing. Bet you've been fending off dudes all day."

You scoffed, shaking your head as he chuckled quietly. Hearing your name and being dragged out of your little bubble, you looked up as one of the other bridesmaids, single she'd repeatedly broadcasted, nodded towards Rooster. "Are you going to introduce us?"

Rooster introduced himself to some of the other bridesmaids and their partners, his knuckles grazing your back as he made small talk for a while, winning them all over instantly... just like you knew he would.

"It's nice out here," Rooster said a while later. You had just finished dinner and were wandering outside for some fresh air, enjoying the warm breeze under the stars at a small cocktail table among other couples. Little fairy lights dotted the area and tea lights adorned the table and bar. "You relaxing a little now?" He asked as a waiter stopped past with champagne. He nabbed two. He handed you one and gave you a gentle cheer. "You're doing great. You look really beautiful," he admitted again. It wasn't a secret you'd always been a little easy on the eyes. Rooster was always a little perplexed you'd never found the right person and settle down. He knew you'd had boyfriends on and off but Natasha had made a passing comment about you being a bit of a commitmentphobic, and he'd be lying to think it hadn't stuck with him.

You smiled. "You mean in this dress that me and seven of my closest friends in high school who I haven't spoken to since we went to college are all wearing in varying styles?"

"Well, you're wearing it well," he corrected himself, a small smile gracing his lips.

"Are you doing okay?"

"I'm okay," he said. "Look, I'm sorry about the kiss before. I thought it would be fun to grandstand and get everyone off your back for a while. Probably should have been a bit more considerate, not cool on my behalf."

"It worked," you laughed, sipping your champagne. "It's fine, really."

"Fine?" he replied, a little surprised. "Shit, that's disappointing."

Panicking, you added, "No, really. It was great. I bet you're a great kisser, Rooster."

He smiled and again, you knew he was goading you. "For the record, I've had no complaints," he raised his pointed finger. "That I'm aware of."

You gave him a wide grin. "I'm sure you haven't. You're absolutely loving this, aren't you?"

He laughed boldly now, easing back in his chair. "Well, yeah. But I'm on your side, I promise. Gotta make it believable. I think we're doing okay to now?"

"I think so. Think Michelle is into you?"

"Who's Michelle?" he squinted, trying to recollect.

"The brunette who was salivating over you as soon as you came to the table."

He laughed, smoothing his moustache. "Oh yeah, she's definitely keen. Up for a rumble for my honour?"

"Honour?" you repeated. "I think we all know those days are behind you."

"Ouch," he smiled, touching your knee. "We've discussed this, I'm here for you and only you. Michelle isn't my type anyway."

"What's wrong with her?" you challenged.

"Well, I'm here with you and she's making no secret that she's into me. What kind of girl does that?"

"One that probably doesn't see me as a threat," you figured with a shrug. He sighed, pursing his lips together.

"You're full of it, you're the hottest girl in there, whether you see it or not. And besides, I only have eyes for you, kid," he sat forward and took your hand, squeezing it tenderly. "You and me, okay?"

"Okay," you told him, his pep talk giving you some warmth.

Sipping his champagne, he asked, "Wanna know something?"

"What's that?"

"I am not a champagne guy," he made a face, putting the glass on the table, away from him as you giggled quietly. "Do you mind if I go and get a whiskey?"

"You're mad, this is tears from the gods," you told him as he cupped your cheek affectionately and wandered over to the bar. He stood tall against the other guys he was near, and that suit? Gee, it was well worth whatever he spent on it. He looked so sophisticated. Not to get you wrong, you always thought he was the coolest guy going around but he simply didn't give a shit about what he wore, if his Hawaiian shirts were any indication. He didn't care what anyone thought about it. He knew his career was cut-throat and the more you thought about it, you had to realise that Rooster was simply a survivalist. He'd gone through some real pain in his life. He had said that he didn't remember a lot of his dad before he died, but Carole raised her boy well.

"Good Lord, he scrubs up pretty good, huh? Shame he's not wearing his whites," your sister said, waddling over to the table you were standing at, helping herself to the free stool you helped her get on. "But I guess he'd show up the bride."

"He didn't want to wear them. I'm just glad I'm not completely desperate and dateless tonight. He could have worn a potato sack for all I care," you admitted, your gaze still on him as he made small talk with the bartender.

"He'd probably still look really good in a potato sack," she teased, adjusting her posture, her expanding belly not enjoying the far-too-expensive pregnancy dress she'd been forced to buy, coming up to the end of her second pregnancy. "But really, nothing is rumbling? No carnal need to just rip his clothes off and see what happens? Sometimes, cute friends can turn into cute lovers."

"Worry about your current situation," you pointed at her belly.

"Eyes work perfectly fine though. Rooster has grown up very, very well."

"Gee, your hormones are doing a number on you," you told her, biting back a grin. "You're married and pregnant," you reminded her, a little concerned for her husband.

"You'll remember this night one day and be like, 'gee, my older, wiser sister was right, I did want to climb him like a tree'."

"Climb who like a tree?" Rooster asked her, joining you both again, his hand skimming your lower back, leaving its place on your lower back where it had rested comfortably most of the evening. "I'm keen to know myself."

You laughed quietly, your sister a little lost for words at her poor timing. "Yeah, who again?"

Swallowing, she announced, "Look, I'm just going to put it out there. You're both single, you're both cute. This shouldn't be a fake date. This could really be a nice first date."

"I am so sorry, Rooster. She hit her head a lot as a child. And I know this... because I was the one who was pushing her," you told him, absolutely mortified but they both laughed. She finally walked away, satisfied with the chaos she had constructed.

"I mean, Annie's not wrong. We are cute," he figured. "I'm single - I'm sure I could do a lot worse than to date someone I enjoy as much as you."

Groaning, you hated the open mocking. It was all such a joke how pathetic you were.

"I'm just kidding," he whispered. "I know she's just trying to rile you up, don't worry about her. We're here and having a great time, let's just leave it at that. No need for any extra pressure," he raised his glass of whiskey to you. "Just take the night as it comes. And if anyone asks how I am in the sack, I expect you give them an 11/10, okay?"

You raised your glass and told him to fuck himself.

"Fair," he admitted. "Just relax. We're doing great if I say so myself. Stay close; I got you."

If there was one thing you were grateful for that evening, it was the happy couple who had decided on a sweetheart table that sat them together and the bridal party sat with their partners or friends, whomever it seemed to be. You were able to stay close to Rooster for most of the night, especially during the formalities.

"And for the first dance," the MC announced after the speeches and cutting of the cake, "We'd like to introduce our newly betrothed to the dancefloor."

"Come on, come dance with me," your groomsman said, not looking at Rooster as he offered you his hand. You kind of had no choice, the first dance was for the couple and the wedding party usually joined them toward the end, it would be embarrassing for all if you ducked out. You gave Rooster a small 'sorry' which he didn't show the least amount of displeasure to.

"Hold on," he took your other hand and carefully kissed your knuckles. You gave him a small smile, hoping he didn't notice the heat that was blistering through your skin. Gee, Rooster was good. Tonight would surely get everyone off your back, even if for a little while. "Take care of her, buddy," Rooster play-threatened with a wink as the guy gave a 'yeah, whatever' in response. Roster's eyes squared up on the back of the guy as he led you to the dancefloor. Would fucking hate to lay you out, he thought, watching as you were guided into your partner's arms. Sitting forward, Rooster sucked his teeth. He didn't think he liked that guy all that much.

But credit where credit was due, your partner was a good dancer. Respectful as you swayed together to Megan Trainer's ‘Like I'm Gonna Lose You’.

After waiting what he assumed was a reasonable amount of time, Rooster stood to his full height, buttoning his suit jacket and moving with purpose to the dancefloor. He could sense you weren't uncomfortable in the arms of the groomsman you paired with, but he noted other couples were splitting for others and he took his chance. Sweeping in, he stood a considerate distance away. "May I cut in?" he asked as your partner stopped and looked up at him - now, it wasn't to say Rooster was intimidating, but he was certainly asserting himself. "I'd like to have this dance with my girl," he said, the questions over.

"Oh, uhh, sure," your groomsman said, a little perplexed, gently dropping your hand and Rooster stepped in with a smile, silently asking for your hand in his. He brought it to his heart and you'd bet you could feel it pounding under the deep blue crushed velvet of his jacket. He put his other hand on your hip, his thumb finding the right place against the cut out of the dress that he was able to feel your skin as he pulled you flush against him. His body was hard and strong, just as you expected. You smiled up at him as his thumb grazed your skin, telling you he knew, and he was there.

Resting his chin against your hair, he carefully swayed you to the quiet beat of the rhythm. There wasn't much left of the song but he didn't miss a single note as the melody changed and some dance tune commenced.

"Whatcha doing?" your sister's husband asked, as she took a few photos of yourself and Rooster dancing to the wedding song on her phone.

"On their first wedding anniversary, I'm going to present this photo to them and say I was right. And I will be gleeful," she said in false maniacy.

"They look like an actual couple," he admitted. "He's good for her. He could protect her, love her."

"They'd be good for each other. Rooster needs someone he can be himself with. No bravado, no pretences, someone to make a life, maybe a family, with. And she won't take any of his shit."

"Definitely not," he laughed, as the song ended and they watch you and Rooster look at each other with gentle smiles. "Fake dating, my left nut."

Your sister nodded. "Didn't think it could possibly work out this well, but they're just perfect for each other."

"Which one do you think will ruin it though?"

A name long-cursed in your family rolled off your sister's tongue, "The Navy."

"Lt. Bradley Bradshaw, ma'am," he introduced himself, offering his hand to the newly wedded couple later that evening. "Congratulations."

"Oh, you're in the Arm - "

"I'm a Naval Aviator," he corrected her with a smile, but he didn't want to correct her on military ranks tonight.

"Bradley, this is Sarah, who I went to high school with, and her new husband, David," you introduced them.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding earlier today," he tugged you close to him again, his fingers drawing undescribable shapes on your bare shoulder and you placed your hand on his tummy. He looked down at you with an easy smile. It was the first time you had reciprocated any affection and he'd certainly noticed. "But what a wonderful reception. Everyone seems to be having a great time."

"Oh, thank you," she said. "We're so happy you could come. We are looking forward to seeing more of you, Bradley."

"Me, too," he said, softly.

"So you fly today?" David asked Rooster excitedly.

"Yeah, man," he nodded. "Most days," he replied.

"How many G's you pull?"

Looking up at Rooster, you saw the quirk of his lip. You had watched this once or twice before and it was always kind of hilarious. Dear Rooster had a fanboy... the guys who were kind of obsessed with local pilots and would chat their ears off, desperate to hear all about the firepower mainly to the detriment of the cornered pilot. "Today?" he sipped his whiskey, coolly.

"Sure..." you kind of drowned the rest out, your fingers absently slipping under his jacket and tracing the curves and ridges of his hard-earned, extremely well-worked abdominals underneath. Rooster made a pained face, trying to wriggle away, his hand catching yours and laying it flat against him.

"Hey, sweet girl?" Rooster finally got your attention, eyes dancing with mirth and a small smile on his face. Your friends watched the scene with keen interest, they wanted to see you interact.

"Hmm?" you looked up as he bent down to whisper how ticklish he was. "Oh," you said, bashfully taking your hand away as he clutched it again, keeping it there. Your hand was pressed into his rock-hard stomach and did your tummy... flippity-fucking-flop?

"It's okay," he slid his fingers between yours, interlocking them tight against him. "Your friends just asked how long we've been dating. I said we've known each other for a long time. My old man was in the Navy. You probably know her grandfather was an admiral, so we kind of had always known each other," Rooster said, squeezing your hand. "Always had a little crush on the Admiral's granddaughter. Everyone did! I'm just the lucky one who she gave the time of day."

You shrugged, your cheeks burning, the well-versed plan you'd texted back and forth about the last week coming well into fruition, it was exactly the situation you'd both been waiting for. "Everyone always joked how cute a couple we could be. We just never saw each other like that."

Rooster looked deeply into your eyes. "Clearly we were both crazy. So, we got super drunk, and I kissed her. Luckily," he raised a hand as your friends laughed, utterly charmed by him. "Luckily for me, she didn't slap me. She actually kissed me back. Would have broken my heart if she rejected me," he was so fucking smooth, you chewed back the laughter that threatened to spill from your lips as the bride just stared at Rooster with heart eyes, another unassuming fan of Rooster Bradshaw. "I'm wild about you," he whispered, nuzzling into your neck and you gently cupped his strong jaw, thumb padding against the wiry skin of a scar. While you'd always noticed them, you'd never felt them under your touch. For a moment, you might have believed it as he kissed your jaw, modest but not uncalled for in the moment.

"You two look so happy," your friends told you sincerely.

"We're so glad to have met you, Lieutenant," David said. "Thank you for coming, thank you for bringing him!" he said to you.

No one ever addressed Rooster like that outside of official duties and he almost wanted to grant at ease. But he'd by lying that he didn't feel a bit like a movie star when he replied, "Please," he held out his palm. "Call me Rooster."

"Awesome, Rooster," the couple chatted to Rooster a while longer before Sarah sidled up to you with that glare of someone ready to start digging for dirt. You gave a weak smile, maybe, kind of relaxing in Rooster's arms. You let go of his hands and gently wrapped your arms around his waist and he adjusted his posture to cater to you.

"He's super hot," she said as you looked up at him, the arm that wasn't dipping into the cut on the back of your dress flailing wildly as he graphically discussed a dogfight at training with some 'Texan dick' (of course he's talking about Hangman). So animated and vivid, he never really spoke about his job to you and frankly, you didn't want to ask. But you were just entranced watching him speak so passionately. "So, tell me," she whispered, ushering you closer. "The sex?"

Poor Rooster was too distracted to hear, but his moment was coming. "An eleven," you replied, you massaged his sides still well-hidden under the jacket, and if Rooster wasn't paying attention before... he surely was now. "Twelve on really good nights."

His smile almost ripped his face in half.

"Oh, my God!" Sarah exclaimed. "I can only imagine. His body is crazy like he just pressed weights before he got here."

And it dawned on you - yes, he needed to rip lactic acid after being in a jet all day, cool. But had he worked out to ensure his jacket strained over his biceps? That his straight leg slacks were tight over his thighs? Also, yes. You couldn't help it and snuggled into his chest as he paused to look down at you with a gentle smile and wrapped his other arm around you, his thumb caressing the tendrils at the base of your neck.

It was very believable on all fronts.

"Rooster is very giving," was all you said, pretending to zip your lips, he pressed you just a little closer.

"I'm so damn happy for you. Make sure you keep an eye out when I throw the bouquet, I'll be aiming for you!"

"Please don't," you said before Rooster nudged you to be polite. Nothing had got past him. "There are so many other eligible people here, so desperate to catch it!" you corrected yourself as he nodded, encouraging and congratulating your tact.

"It's early days, I don't think we're ready to get married yet," he teased. "But I'd marry her tomorrow if she wanted me to."

"That is just the sweetest thing," she said. "Ugh, you guys are definitely next!"

So sweet, such bullshit, you looked up at him as he pouted back down, his facade cracking under the pressure of wanting to laugh so fucking hard. It was like selling candy to a baby.

The Boyfriend Experience 2 / 2

masterlist.

[ceruleancattail]

hello! I absolutely loved the reader who shies away at selfies, can you please make a part 2 with Jamil, Idia, Leona (and maybe platonic Ortho?) thank you!

Jamil, Idia and Leona with a s/o who is insecure about their appearance

Theres nothing much that escapes the eye of a viper.

Jamil’s used to observing people, noting down their every move. It’s crucial for his duties. You never know who’s going to harm Kalim at any given time. Naturally, you’re on his radar as well.

For a much different reason, of course.

Kalim’s a ray of sunshine. He’ll say whatever that’s on his mind. Praising or criticising with a bright smile on his face. Sometimes, he does compliment you.

You don’t take it well. Always laughing it off, before discreetly switching the subject. It’s a practised art for you, isn’t it? Smoothly leaping into another topic, avoiding all conversation about your looks.

It’s rather tragic, that you don’t see what he sees. Don’t get him wrong. You aren’t a dazzling diamond, shining for all to see. You’re a little gem, peeking out of the rocks. A gem in the rough. Twinkling like the north star, guiding him home, back into your arms.

Jamil tends to hold your hand. Fingers intertwining with yours, palm pressed against you. Whenever you start to joke about your appearance, he’s giving you a gentle squeeze. Bringing your hand towards his mouth, Jamil administers small little kisses onto your knuckles. Fleeting little things, kisses like the touch of butterflies, landing on your skin. Staring into your eyes, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

Can’t really deny anything when you’re all flustered, can you?

Jamil does think you’re beautiful, and he’ll be damned if you say otherwise.

Idia doesn’t really like sticking his nose into other people’s business. That’s like provoking a bad-end route right there. Ain’t no way he’s going through that.

However, you’re a different story. He’s seen how you curl into yourself whenever you walk through a crowd. The way you desperately try not to look at your reflection, eyes shrouded in shadow. Idia’s the king of self deprecating jokes, but even he can’t seem to top yours.

You seem to make hating yourself a life goal, with the way you diss every single little thing about your body.

Unfortunately, Idia doesn’t agree. He’ll spend hours on the phone, whispering sweet compliments into the speaker. Telling you what he liked about your outfit today, how beautiful you looked when you turned and smiled at him… sappy things like that.

Idia gets all flustered, and his voice tends to peak at times. Hey, can’t help that he’s nervous, talking to someone as wonderful as you. An SSR, through and through. He’ll whale on the gacha just to catch a glimpse of you.

So please… don’t sell yourself short.

You’ll break his heart.

Leona’s used to people parading about him. The pride of beast men, flexing their claws. It’s a strength dominated world out there. No one wants to appear weak.

You don’t seem to take the hint, do you? Shoulders hunched, always trying to make yourself smaller then you seem. Squirming away whenever a photo is taken, shrugging off compliments like they’re the plague.

You’re quite literally the definition of a small, weak, herbivore. Trembling like a leaf in a storm. Careful, anyone could just take advantage of that. You’re lucky that Leona’s nice.

Yet his patience runs thin. Everything that the sun touches is his. With every self deprecating joke you make, you’re insulting his property. Leona pins you down, pressing his lips deep into his skin. Kissing every part of you that you deem unlovable. Lips burning hot, searing into your body.

Can’t stand to look at yourself? It’s fine.

Leona will just have to make you look.

Bonus: Platonic Ortho

He’ll tag along with you. After all, his brother hardly gets out of his room. Ortho gets bored sometimes.

The best way to acquire data would be through experiences, would it not? He does believe that hanging out with a normal person will do wonders for his database. Although you do tend to shy away whenever he tries to take a photo. That’s no good! He needs pictorial references to draw back onto.

You… don’t like the way you look?

Ortho thinks you look just fine.

He’ll insist on a photo. Ortho’s stubborn that way. Even if you refuse on the account of your looks, he’ll fix you with a blank stare, and say that your voice was not registered.

After this, Ortho goes out of his way to find you in a crowd. He’ll give you a genuine compliment every day. He likes your hair! He likes your skin! He likes your nails!

Positive affirmation is the best way to go for these things, no?

As blunt as his compliments are, you can’t really deny Ortho. Not when his eyes sparkle with joy whenever he’s praising you. He’s merely stating what he observes, after all.

You’re a fascinating human!

[heliads]

You Agreed to This

Pierre Gasly has a reputation for flirting with anything that breathes. You have a reputation for being scarily focused on racing. When Charles, Lando, and Esteban get it into their heads to dare Pierre to get you to fall in love with him, the results can only be tragic.

a/n: i was frustrated when i couldn't find fics with this vague plotline like two months ago and then i remembered that i can simply make them myself. anyway this is my longest fic to date (6k+ words), enjoy!

masterlist

The whole affair started in the recesses of the Alpine motorhome, too far from prying eyes and chances to stop before it got bad. Miami is boiling hot as per usual, it gets to Pierre just like it always does. He’s trying to fend off the heat by hiding somewhere deep within his team’s complex, team jacket stripped off somewhere on a nearby sofa and fans cranked on high. 

It was just Pierre at the beginning, but drivers tend to flock together in times of heat related stress, and now there are four of them sprawled across floors and furniture in an attempt to alleviate their suffering. Charles found Pierre first, just like he usually does, then Lando followed after media duties were over, and Esteban was last, claiming that if this many rival drivers were there he had a right to die in his own motorhome too, god damn it.

Pierre has mixed thoughts on that. He has mixed thoughts on quite a lot, actually– the blistering temperatures are getting to him, swirling memories into fact into fiction. He’ll get his head in order when it comes time to race, but that won’t happen until tomorrow, once qualis are in order and they’ve all been shunted around for the grid lineup.

Across the room, Lando groans from the shadows of a functionally decorated armchair. “This is miserable.”

Pierre gives him a look. “Your complaining is miserable.” 

Undeterred, Lando keeps up his protests. “We should do something fun. Pierre, don’t you know like a thousand people here? Invite someone over.”

Pierre snorts. “I don’t know all of Miami, Lando. Go to sleep or something.”

Esteban chuckles. “Could have fooled me. Didn’t you tag, like, a hundred people in your latest Instagram story?”

Pierre turns his head to glare at his teammate. They’re still supposed to be friends as of three or so months of being racing partners, but apparently that association doesn’t go so far as requiring Esteban to defend him. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

Charles shakes his head, grinning. “It’s the truth, let him speak. You have connections.”

Lando flings a dramatic arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight pouring in through the windows. They’ve all been shut with the blinds pulled down, of course, but some warmth has a way of coming in regardless of what anyone wants. “Pierre’s just sociable like that. He could win over anybody. Or flirt with anybody.”

Pierre rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Norris.”

Charles arches a brow. “What would he be jealous of, your losing streak? I saw you strike out trying to talk up Margot Robbie last time we were in Monaco, don’t lie to me.”

“That was different,” Pierre protests, “she’se literally married, what did you expect?”

Charles coughs pointedly. “Yet you flirted with her anyway. Anyways, don’t argue. You can’t flirt with everybody. Not successfully, at least.”

Pierre leans forward cautiously. “What does that mean?”

Charles laughs. “There’s one person you could never charm in a thousand years.”

Pierre sighs, answers Charles’ unspoken question in time with his friend. “Y/N L/N?”

“Y/N L/N,” Charles confirms, and the other three drivers break into identical grins.

Pierre can accept defeat on that front. Y/N L/N is the only female driver on the grid at the moment, and anyone can tell why she made it despite the odds mere moments after meeting her. She’s crazy intense, more dedicated to racing than even Max or Lewis. Pierre wouldn’t be surprised if she could win a driver’s championship in the next year or two. Talk to her once and you’ll be stunned that she hasn’t done it yet.

Every time Pierre, or any other driver or spectator for that matter, has tried to chat her up, they always end up shut down faster than you can spin out on a slick track with the wrong tires. She doesn’t have time for any of them. The girl lives and breathes and dies for racing, she’s not going to let something like a boy get in her way.

This only makes Pierre more tempted to keep up with her, of course, but he learned a long time ago that was a lost cause. The only reason Y/N would ever look twice at him is if he was a place ahead of her during a race, and given her knack for overtakes, that doesn’t happen all that often.

Lando sits forward, and Pierre decides that he doesn’t like the gleam in the younger boy’s eyes. “Say, I’ve got a great idea to stave off boredom. Pierre, go date Y/N.”

Pierre almost chokes. “Are you insane? Just like that, go date her? How would that help you in any way?”

Lando spreads his hands. “If it would be so easy for you to flirt with anybody, how about you prove it? Surely Y/N isn’t so far out of your league. You’re both in the same line of work, at least you’ve got that going for you.”

Pierre opens his mouth to fight this. He may have a bit of a cocky streak, sure, but he’s a driver, who amongst them doesn’t? Just as he starts to get himself out of this, though, Esteban speaks up instead.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pierre couldn’t even come close. None of us can.” Esteban says it like a fact, and that’s all it takes for Pierre to change his tune.

“You know what?” He says, feeling his adrenaline start to kick in, “Sure I can.”

Charles’ eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious about girls,” Pierre says, causing a ripple of groans to cascade around the room, “This time I am, at least. I’ll win her over, no problem.”

Lando sits up. “If you’re really doing this, we’ve got to set some rules.”

“Such as?” Pierre dares him to continue.

Charles taps a thoughtful hand on his leg. “It has to be more than a one time thing. Just a single conversation could be a fluke or her feeling bad for you.”

Outraged, Pierre starts to fight that, but Lando picks up the thread of the conversation before he can cut it short. “That makes sense. We have to be sure that she’s actually in love with you. Like, get her to kiss you or something? And pics or it didn’t happen. We need proof.”

Pierre snickers, trying not to feel like control is slipping out of his hands with each passing second. “Anything else? Want me to name our firstborn child after you?”

That makes Esteban crack up. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? We’ll settle for being named godfather. All three of us collectively.”

Pierre shakes his head incredulously. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Charles slaps him on the back. “You have to believe in yourself, Pierre. If you don’t, she’ll never fall for it.”

And so Pierre Gasly gets himself stuck in the con of a lifetime. Is it going to work? The odds are abysmal. Will he make it, though? Well, Pierre never likes to back down from a challenge. He’s not going to let this one get away from him so easily.

The sun is bright and the morning is tense in the paddock. You arrived early, earlier than most of the drivers, all so you could get a taste of what the track was like without anyone breathing down your neck. Some would call you a little too eager, others would say you’re plain stressed out and nothing more to it.

You’d give yourself a little more credit than that, though. You know exactly who you are and what you have to prove. The more time you give yourself to plan and acclimate, the less time there is for mistakes.

That isn’t to say that you ignore all the comments on your pre-race habits. You are well aware of your reputation, even proud of it. You wear it as a second skin, a racing suit, a livery specially designed to flaunt your own achievement. The whispers of those out and about in the world of motorsport follow you wherever you go, dogging your footsteps until you half expect to leave streams of words behind you instead of burned rubber.

That’s Y/N L/N. The one who only cares about the track? The one who lives and dies for racing? That’s the one. That’s the one.

There’s not much else to it. So what if you tend to be a little more intense than most? Being serious is the only method of survival available to you. You can be sweet and fun, play yourself off as the ditzy girl who only got in so her team could capitalize on brand deals, or you can be a woman without a feminine bone in her body, so far from girlish she chokes whenever she sees the color pink. Both are awful alternatives, so you choose the only one you can:  ignore every box they try to push you in until everyone else gives up. Let them whisper. At least they aren’t trying to change you anymore.

That’s how you’ve navigated the paddock up until now, the entirety of racing life as you know it. It’s worked out in your favor, or so you’d say, at least. You push yourself on and off track. You answer the unfair questions they throw at you. You solve the mysteries of why someone is taking an involvement in your affairs and come out on top of any possible rumors.

There are mysteries, though, and then there’s the latest one, which is why on Earth Pierre Gasly has taken to following you around the paddock. They all did, at the start; the drivers, the fans, the interviewers, even the team bosses, all staring at you like you were in a circus exhibition. A girl in motorsport? Couldn’t be. Yet it is. 

That’s mostly drifted off, though, the attention gone once they realized you weren’t interested in belonging to any of them. Most of them did it unintentionally, of course, and the few who got too close on purpose quickly learned they would get nothing from you. Pierre learned that himself, or so you thought. That doesn’t stop his attention from surging up again all of a sudden.

It’s been a solid few weeks of this behavior, and you’re still no closer to understanding it than you were at the start. If you were to put an initial date on this whole affair, you’d maybe say everything began back in Miami. All of a sudden, Pierre, who up until now had accepted that you weren’t interested in him even if he didn’t like that all too much, had decided to renew his affections once more. 

Where you had been content to walk briskly through the paddock by yourself, Pierre is suddenly a few feet behind you, always ready to offer a bottle of water when you need it or issue a joking comment when you seem in need of a laugh. He’s playing his cards carefully, always disappearing the moment you start to take his presence for granted, but why, you cannot tell. Everyone here has a motive. Surely Pierre Gasly has one as well.

You weren’t willing to trust him at first, ignoring him throughout the Miami race and all sessions at Imola. The only angle worth your while is your own, and maybe your constructor’s, too. Still, he stayed. That has to count for something.

And, when the end of a race finds you absolutely desolate after an engine failure, that starts to count a little more than it would have before. This race is early enough in the year that the DNF doesn’t have to sting too much, but all you can think about is how you just gave Max, Charles, and the rest of the title competitors the leg up they need to beat you out.

It’s not a good feeling, to say the least. You find some empty corner of the paddock where you can be alone and let your emptiness consume you. That was your plan, at least, but you’ve only been able to wallow in your own misery for about ten minutes or so before someone else joins you. The only other driver to fail to complete the necessary laps:  Pierre.

Pierre may not have had engine problems like you, but that doesn’t make him any luckier. George Russell spun wide on a turn and took out Pierre before righting himself again. George got off relatively easy for a crash, only needed to swap out some tires and his front wing, but Pierre took the brunt of it and ended up in the barriers. You heard him swearing, frustrated, on the radio after the race; the commentators loved that one, even if he didn’t.

That leaves both of you in the same undesirable position. Pierre arches a brow as he takes in the sight of you:  legs pulled up to your chest where you sit slumped against the wall, expression hopeless and all ambition gone for the moment.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, “I’m trying to hide from Sky Sports.”

You gesture vaguely at the open floor next to you. “Feel free. I'm not too thrilled about hearing from them, either.”

Pierre collapses in an untidy heap of limbs by your side, pulling at the collar of his race suit so he can unzip it down to his waist, leaving only the long sleeved shirt clinging to his skin. “At least engine failure is something you can’t control. Everyone’s been all over me trying to get me to admit that I should have seen George coming.”

You wrinkle your brow. “That wasn’t your fault. He braked late, it was obvious.”

Pierre glances over at you, clearly fighting a laugh. “Obvious, huh?”

You look away, wondering why you feel embarrassed all of a sudden. You don’t lie when it comes to racing, why bother? Thanks to the vast supplies of driver cameras and radio clips, there’s no point in glossing over what everyone knows to be true. Still, Pierre has a way of making that feel like something you should think twice about, like maybe not all of your attitudes towards drivers and their habits are things you should speak freely on. Maybe some things can be kept just to yourself. Maybe some drivers are beginning to verge beyond mere functionality as competitors.

“Everyone saw it,” you justify, “bad timing, that’s all. Not something you could control no matter how much space you gave him.”

Pierre nods solemnly. “The engine wasn’t your fault either, by the way. There was nothing you could have done to make it work again. You can’t limp through a problem like that.”

You tilt your head back, staring up at the ceiling above you. “I tried, though.”

“I know,” Pierre says. They’re only two words, but for some reason they make you feel better than any of the minutes spent listening to your engineers’ speeches on how they would fix that issue by the next race.

Judging by the slight smile on Pierre’s face, he must know that too. When the seconds stretch into minutes and you never tell Pierre to go, that smile only deepens. The conversation leaves the race eventually, and you end up talking about silly things like movies you’d like to see or places you want to go but never have. You don’t know that you’ve ever spoken to another driver like this before. You don’t know that you could with anyone else.

You have to leave that corner eventually, called away by a team principal with apologies in order. Pierre departs around the same time, claiming that he can’t run from the interviewers forever. You steal one last glance at him over your shoulder as you go, and can’t help but notice the grin on his face. It’s broader than before, proud of something; what, you can’t tell. Despite the fact that both of you have failed out of the race, you still get the feeling that Pierre has won at something more than you today. 

Charles releases an Instagram post later that day of him, Pierre, and a few other drivers out at a club. You see it, and spend too much time wondering how long you have to wait after a photo is posted to like it so it’s not weird. What you don’t see is the conversation that happened later, how Pierre triumphantly told the rest that he was closer than they’d ever believe. You don’t see it, and the next time you see him, you stop to talk with a ready smile.

So it goes the next race, and the next one, and the next. Pierre is there. So are you. You end up finding him eventually; as time goes on, it’s not just Pierre seeking you out but the other way around, too. It’s even, both of you wanting each other just as often as the other. Eventually, you have to admit defeat to the voice in the back of your head telling you that you might have misread Pierre after all. Maybe he’s not just a horrific flirt. Maybe he can be a friend.

And, leaning over the railing of Pierre’s room in the Alpine motorhome so you can feel the gentle wind on your face while you stare out at the paddock, you think you would be alright if there was something more, too. You swore to yourself you’d never even think about another driver in that way, too scared of all your efforts to distinguish yourself from everyone’s expectations for female drivers being for naught, but it might be okay if it was Pierre. Pierre is different, nothing like the rest. It would be alright if it was him.

Pierre stands by your side, back straight and posture perfect as he surveys the mess of people milling about some floors below. “Nervous for the race?”

You tilt your head to the side, considering the question. “As much as anyone, I guess. I like this track, though. Should be good.”

Pierre nods, smiling at that. “And what about me? Am I going to be good, too?”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t need me to tell you that.” 

He doesn’t; this is one of Pierre’s best tracks. He should be up for a podium or at least high in the points if everything goes according to plan.

He just grins. “Indulge me.”

You give him a pointed stare, then head back into the room. “You’re an ass.”

Pierre follows. “You love me, though.”

A pause. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He asks, unable to disguise a slight shine of surprise from entering his eyes, like despite all the luck he’d had recently, Pierre still didn’t think he would get this far.

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug, unwilling to commit to anything further. You feel as if you’re standing on a lake frozen over, aware that any wrong move could shatter the ice beneath your feet.

Pierre moves towards the door, and for one horrified moment you think he’s actually going to leave right then and there before you realize he’s closing it instead. He turns back once he’s sure no passersby can see you, and then he’s kissing you and you can’t worry about anything else. Not even the race. Not even the threat that this might send you spiraling until you’re so lost on him that you won’t be able to think straight for the rest of your life.

He leans back at last, smiling at you with the same smile you think you saw on a podium on Monza when he first won a race in F1. “We could have done that earlier,” he whispers, not daring to disturb the quiet victory of the room.

“We could have,” you answer him. Every driver hates losing time. This is no exception.

Your head is light with the most wonderful feeling, and then over Pierre’s shoulder you see something strange. He left the door open. Cracked halfway, even though this door is notorious for never staying open right. He would have had to try to keep it like this. He would have wanted it to be that way for a reason.

Pierre’s phone vibrates and he grimaces, murmuring something about having to talk to one of his engineers before slipping out of the room. He kisses you one last time before he leaves, a quiet touch pressed to your cheek. He takes great care to ensure that you do not see the message blinking up from his screen, and when he goes, you notice that he does not have to turn the knob, only pull open an already ajar door.

Something is wrong. The longer you stand there, alone in Pierre’s room, the more you start to think, and what you think about is not good at all. The timing of the text message. The look on his face when he left. Nothing is adding up.

Voices drift to you down the hall as you stand there wondering, Pierre’s among them. You walk slowly forward, unable to fight a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like something is about to go very, very poorly. You usually trust your instincts. As it turns out, they won’t be wrong now.

Pierre is standing in a meeting room down the hall, talking in hushed voices to a few other drivers. As you draw closer, you recognize them. Charles, closest; Lando, eyes wide; Esteban, even, staring in disbelief. All three are telling Pierre replications of the same sentiment, which is that they cannot believe he actually managed to do it.

Get you to fall in love with him, they mean. Fulfill the dare, they explain. Like they all agreed a few months ago. Back in Miami, the three of them dared Pierre to get you to fall for him, and like the overconfident, thrill seeking diehard flirt that he is, Pierre agreed.

Worse:  he did it successfully. You know, you had been wondering if this was too good to be true. Looks like it was. All that time you were letting Pierre into your heart, and he was manipulating you into falling in love. How pathetic. How incredibly soul-destroying.

The four drivers look up when you shut the door to the meeting room behind you. Pierre is the first one to notice it’s you, and you don’t ever think you’ll forget the look on his face when he realizes that you know the truth. His entire expression contorts with horror and his hands rise by his sides, trying to force your heart to stay unbroken. Pity it’s too late for that.

“Y/N–” he begins, a little too loud, a little too desperate, “wait– it’s not what it sounds like–”

“Actually,” you say coolly, “I believe that it is. You three dared Pierre to get me to fall in love with him? That’s exactly what it is, right?”

It’s not a question. Charles, Lando, and Esteban have realized you’re here, too, and they wear similar shades of Pierre’s alarm. Charles opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to explain himself, but you cut him off.

“Don’t even try. I know what you did, I don’t want to hear your terrible reasoning for why you thought this was okay. I’m going to go back to my motorhome and we are never going to speak of this again. Don’t talk to me in the paddock. Don’t talk to me at all unless we’re in a media event and you have to. I never want to speak to any of you.”

Lando interrupts, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Y/N, don’t you think that’s a little extreme? It was just a prank, that’s all. Just a laugh.”

Pierre looks like he’s fighting back deep irritation at that. You just arch one brow. “Just a prank to humiliate me? You disgust me. All of you.”

You let that silence their arguments and leave the room. You think Pierre might have tried to follow you out, but Charles blocks him. You hear the Monegasque’s voice spilling out into the hall as you leave, telling Pierre not to try it. She obviously doesn’t want to see any of us anymore, mate. Best to leave it be.

You wish it was that easy for you. It takes everything in you to make it to your private room in your team’s motorhome and lock the door behind you before the tears finally come flooding out. You’d like nothing more than to fly home and spend the next several days and nights comatose in your bed, but, as if things weren’t bad as is, there’s still a race tomorrow, so you won’t be able to go anywhere for at least twenty-four hours.

The lights go out, the chequered flag waves some time later. You’re not entirely aware of what happened in that race, nor of how you were able to drag yourself out of your room and back to the starting grid, but you blink once and you’re on the podium, so evidently everything worked out. You watch the clips later, the commentators are all in shock. They haven’t seen you race so aggressively in years. It bordered on cruelty.

Pierre, by contrast, had his worst race in months. It seemed like he was hardly in charge at all, more like the car was controlling him. He wasn’t even in the points. No one can understand it. You refuse to think about it any longer.

Another race weekend comes and goes. The interviewers are confused– wasn’t it just last week that you seemed so much happier than you are now? You’re surly in press conferences, answering questions in a clipped and emotionless tone. They’d say you were totally checked out were it not for the fact that you’re still getting good results.

They don’t know everything, of course, but some of the more eagle-eyed reporters are starting to put the pieces together. What’s up with you and Pierre Gasly? Someone asks one day, Weren’t you two good friends recently?

We’re drivers, you reply, Aren’t we all used to pretending things are better than they are?

When you see Pierre after that press conference, he looks dizzy, totally unsteady on his own feet. You don’t meet his eyes. You’re not sure that it’s guilt, but it feels something like that anyway. Everything is wrong.

Pierre is asked about it later, of course, and he’s a little more candid than you were. He never names names, just says that things happen sometimes, things he wishes he could take back. Pierre has to take a moment to get himself together after that to answer the next question, a fantastic display of emotion. How charming of him to wear his heart on his sleeve when he’s just ripped yours out of your chest.

The pattern repeats the next few weeks. Pierre, Charles, Lando, and Esteban try to talk to you on multiple occasions, but you brush them off with nothing more than a well-placed glare and some good avoidance tactics. Even then, you should have known that your cold shoulder couldn’t last forever.

Of course it would be Charles who gets you at last– if there’s anyone on this entire damned grid who could get why you are the way you are, it would be him. Il Predestinato knows what it’s like to have the entire world expecting something of you, and he doesn’t lie easy because of it. Charles finds you late as the sun is setting and won’t let you avoid him forever, even though you try.

At last, you give up and stop making him chase you around the paddock. You’re sitting at a table outside your motorhome, shaded by a sunbleached umbrella and sipping at a bottle of ice water long since turned lukewarm.

“He regrets it, you know,” Charles says by way of introduction.

You refuse to raise your eyes from your intense study of the bottle’s printed plastic label. “He’s going to have to do a lot better than sending his best friend to talk for him, then.”

Charles scoffs. “Oh, come on. You know you haven’t let him get close enough for that.”

Your water bottle receives a very irate glare. “Wonder why that would be.”

Charles sighs. “We were wrong, we all know that. It was a stupid thing to suggest and even more stupid to keep it up that long.”

You look at him at last, anger gone and replaced by mere disappointment. From the way Charles shifts in his seat opposite you, you think that might be an even worse threat for him to face. “Then why did you keep it going? If you knew it was so wrong? Pierre was committed to your prank for weeks. Why didn’t any of you call it quits?”

“He didn’t want to,” Charles admits, “not because of the dare, because he liked being around you. Did you know he was mad at us the day you caught us? He didn’t want us anywhere near that room. Told me privately it’s because he wanted the first kiss for himself, not for anything related to the dare.”

That makes you go silent. The fan whirs overhead, pushing your thoughts around in slow circles somewhere above you. “That makes no sense.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Charles grumbles, “Happened, though. Regardless of what he thought at the start, Pierre doesn’t want to hurt you. Not anymore.”

You turn towards him. “Is that supposed to make how he felt at the start okay somehow?”

Charles shakes his head. “No, but it makes the ending better, I think.”

He’s right. You lean back against your seat, contemplative. Charles takes this as his cue to leave. He pauses once before he’s out of range, then calls something else back to you. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I told you that, by the way.”

You can’t fight a laugh. “I won’t tell a soul you’re on my side.”

He smiles at that. You’ve missed him, you realize, him and the rest. You thought distance would save you from feeling quite so badly about all of this, but it just cut you off from your best support. Charles disappears into the crowd, a bright flare of red in a multitude of shifting shades, and for the first time since that treacherous discovery, you start to wonder what it would feel like to forgive.

Pierre is in an awful state. So Esteban has told him about a thousand and one times, at least, each utterance delivered with the same derisive snort. Pierre knows he’s supposed to bounce back from this, pretend it was all just a prank, but he’s known better for months now. It might have been a prank the first day, even the first week, but not after that.

Here is the problem:  Pierre, in all his cocky eagerness to show his friends up, failed to consider that Y/N might be able to charm him as well. He might have gone a little overboard in his attempts to make her fall in love with him, perhaps even to the point where he fell in love instead. He isn’t sure when he first realized he had feelings for her, but Pierre is more than certain it was before Y/N discovered she felt the same way.

What a ruin to his reputation. Pierre hadn’t minded, though, not when they were still on speaking terms. He liked the way they could talk for hours, how Y/N’s guard slipped when she started to trust him. She had a way of smiling when she was sure no one was about to stab her in the back. Pierre misses that. He’s sure he’ll never see it again.

Unable to stand Esteban’s dismissive attitude anymore, Pierre picks himself up from where he’d been wallowing in misery on the floor of the Alpine motorhome. He doesn’t know where he’s going yet, only that it needs to be somewhere without a single soul in sight. Still, when he passes aimlessly through the halls and almost runs into another driver, he supposes he should take it as a testament to his distracted mind that he doesn’t realize it’s Y/N until they’re already standing still and staring at each other.

Too late, Pierre remembers she hates him. His eyes drop to the floor and he mumbles an apology, ready to keep moving. She told him not to speak to her anymore; Pierre can hardly fault her for that, and he won’t use his presence as a weapon if that’s the one that will cut her the deepest.

He is surprised, then, when Y/N reaches out to stop him before he can get too much farther. Pierre looks at her hand locked around his, then back up at her.

“Wait,” she says, “I want to talk to you.”

“I thought that wasn’t happening anymore,” Pierre says. It occurs to him that it probably sounds cold, but she speaks before he can try to explain what he meant.

“Things have changed,” she says.

That’s enough to convince him to stay, if not for the feeling of her fingers still on his than anything else. He doesn’t miss the way her gaze keeps flitting from him to the occasional Alpine aide walking down the halls, and to save her, Pierre jerks his head towards a door down the hall.

“There’s an empty room to the left, we can talk there.”

A brief flash of relief crosses her face, and Y/N lets Pierre lead her over to the room. He leaves the door open to give her an easy escape, but she closes it after her anyway. No onlookers. Maybe that’s for the best.

Y/N sits down in one of the chairs, legs crossed, arms folded. She may be here with him after so long, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing up all her walls, even the physical ones. It hurts to remember how easy it had been to be with her that last day. Pierre plays those moments on repeat in his head– the balcony, the breeze, the words, the kiss. He can never stop the later scene from following, how her demeanor had changed when she realized the truth. He didn’t think he could hurt one person that badly. He was wrong.

She’s still silent, so Pierre assumes it’s on him to start talking. “I’m sorry,” he begins, “I know that’s not enough, but it’s true. I was stupid. I should have told you before–”

Regret clogs up his throat and he can’t choke out a single syllable more. Y/N looks suspicious. “Before the kiss?”

“Before anything,” Pierre clarifies, “when we were talking at the beginning. I never should have let it get so far. Doesn’t mean I minded when it did,” he remarks half to himself, “but I should have done it on my own terms.”

When he dares look up at Y/N again, he swears she seems slightly more open, but that could just be his wishful thinking. “Do you mean what you said in the interview?” She asks suddenly, “Do you wish you could take it back?”

“Yes,” Pierre says in a rush, “I want a do over. I want to do it right. I would have done all of it without ever talking to Lando or Esteban or Charles first. I would have done it for me.” His voice is quiet. “I would have loved you without making it a lie.”

Y/N’s eyes are wide, but she isn’t afraid or angry. “Second chances come around more often than you’d think,” she whispers.

“Even for me?” Pierre asks.

She nods once. “Even for you.”

They’re both on the podium that day. His race engineers can’t explain why Pierre’s luck has suddenly had this tremendous turnaround. He can. She can, too. Sometimes your heart likes getting in the way if it knows you’re doing something wrong. It’s a good thing, then, that he’s finally doing something right.

She’s waiting for him once the interviews are over. They’re both exhausted, half drunk on the champagne in the air and wholly pleased with themselves. The sun goes down, and Pierre is happy. It is just as easy as that.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

[emo-batboy]

Really imagining Bruce having like an armada of fans who both baby him and think he’s the hottest man on earth, completely devoted to him. Usually, they’re pretty quiet unless there’s another public sighting of him (rare but it happens) UNTIL the bomb goes off in his tower and everyone learns Bruce was the target and suddenly they’re like “oh no poor little meow meow :( he doesn’t deserve this” but this time: it gets Global attention

Gotham’s crime is usually like a Jersey Thing TM where people make fun of how bad the streets are “Look Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” “But what about that shadowy place over there?” “That is Gotham. You must never go there, Simba.” It’s just that one town along the Jersey Shore that is always draped in shadows, and you can’t swim there or you’ll get cursed.

But then The Riddler happens, and it’s kinda a bit bigger than usual? Their entire political sphere is murdered?!? Unusual. Suddenly, Gotham is underwater?? National crisis! But then BRUCE WAYNE, RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD, ALMOST DIES VIA MAILED EXPLOSIVE and now shit gets serious!!!! (They don’t know about Aquaman yet. Shhh)

Some people are like “why tf do we care about this rich guy” and others are like “wait there’s someone richer than Lex Luthor?” and so the Bruce Wayne fanbase is like my time has come and they post his entire history of charitable donations all over the internet. His tragic backstory resurfaces (now featuring his mother’s, thanks Ed :/) and the “Poor Little Meow Meow Bruce Wayne” agenda goes global.

The Riddler’s video gets fact-checked, and the press concludes it’s like 90% cicrcumstantial and has nothing to do with Bruce anyway. News of Bruce Wayne paying for over 2/3 of the city’s infrastructure after the flood is put on blast. Paired with accounts saying “And also look at him. He’s hot af” and Bruce cannot catch a break.

Suddenly Bruce Wayne is The Celebrity of 2k22. Everyone wants to know his life story. He gets memed to hell and back because he’s “relatable.” Old TV specials of his parents’ unsolved murders pop up on daytime. It’s revealed that he’s been funding Gotham Pride for ten years now. That one time he was caught making out with Harvey Dent turns him into the bicon of the century.

He still refuses to speak to the press. It just makes people like him more because he’s “mysterious.” And for the first time in his life, Bruce can’t just get away with being a recluse anymore. On the bright side, this Soft, Gentle, Introverted Billionaire image that’s been thrust upon him is deterring the public from linking him and The Batman so maybe it’s a good thing??

[ravenpureforever]

I think the best part of KinnPorsche, and it really comes to mind with this latest episode, is that every character thinks they’re in a different genre and it’s the funniest thing watching it clash with the reality.

Kinn is just living his best rom-com life where he falls for his sassy but kind assistant bodyguard that he can no longer live with out.

Porsche is basically a YA novel where he falls for his sexy morally ambiguous love interest who’s secretly sweet but *gasp* his past has come to haunt him!

Pete thinks he’s in a dark psychological thriller where he must battle his inner demons and brooding but hot captor to maintain his humanity but it threatens to over take him at any moment as he is torn between his newly found dark desires and the reputation he prides himself on.

Vegas acts like he’s in gothic bodice ripper novel where his entire world becomes the kind, empathic heroine Pete and he will do anything to keep him to himself and Pete is going to help him overcome the truama of his past with his love.

Kim sees himself in this brooding noir style detective film where he must uncover the dark past of his family but oh no he finds himself falling for the pure and sweet ingénue Chay and must wrestle with the dangerous life he leads and the mission he’s devoted himself to and the love of his life

Porchay thought he’s living his Wattpad dream life where he meets his idol and gains his respect as he tutors him and they slowly develop a sweet friendship that turns into a heartfelt romance

They really demonstrate how all the characters are protagonists of their own story, and that’s how they make their decisions, based on the assumptions on the world around them. They think they know the story their in, and that’s the role they have taken, but the tragedy and the complications of these relationships is that they aren’t in a single genre story. They’re people, achingly human people, interacting with other complex people and what is salvation for one is a damnation for the other.

They aren’t in any specific genre (you know, beyond on the whole mafia thing) and that’s where the miscommunication happens, that’s how the drama unfolds, that’s how all these different romances keep missing each other, because they’re all operating on different wavelengths based on the story they think *THEY’RE* in and not stopping to really consider the other perspective.

It’s absolutely hilarious, it’s terribly tragic, it’s utterly beautiful and performed so well by the writers and the actors.

[hrh-prince-butt]

alex and henry plan to dress up as barbie and ken for an upcoming costume party, but they can't seem to agree on who should be barbie and who should be ken...

(hello this is possibly the dumbest thing i've ever written, and i have no regrets, it was so much fun to write)

-

“You can’t deny the Kenergy, babe.” 

“You’re right,” Henry shoots back. “I can’t. And if anyone has it, it’s you.” 

Alex crosses his arms and glares stubbornly at Henry. Henry glares right back, just as goddamn stubborn. Looks like they’re in a stalemate. 

There was no argument that they absolutely had to dress up as Barbie and Ken for their couples costume this year. It had practically been telepathically agreed upon before they even left the cinema. Apparently, the hard part is agreeing on who should dress up as who.

Alex had thought it was obvious that he should be Barbie. But when he brought up speculations about his costume - should he copy an outfit from the movie or figure out something of his own? - Henry had frowned and said he thought he was supposed to be Barbie. 

“Just face it, sweetheart,” Alex says, patting Henry on the shoulder. “You are clearly the Ken to my Barbie.” 

Henry huffs. “How am I the Ken to your Barbie?”

“Well.” Alex leans back on the couch and gestures to himself. “I’m the successful career person, and you are my hot blond accessory. Obviously.” 

“Unbelievable,” Henry says. He sounds genuinely offended. “David, are you hearing this?” David the Beagle lifts his head lazily at the sound of his name, but finding no imminent threat and no promise of treats, he goes back to napping on the couch. 

“All this time,” Henry goes on, and Alex can tell he’s really amping up the theatrics now, probably working up to a dramatic monologue of some kind. “I thought you liked me because of my intelligence, my wit. I thought I was more than just a pretty face, but no. Apparently I’m just some attractive himbo boytoy to you. Utterly unbelievable.” 

He punctuates this absolute scene with a very undramatic bite of chocolate chip cookie. This batch is his third attempt, and Alex has to admit they aren’t terrible. They are overbaked and therefore rock hard - Henry’s annoyed chewing can probably be heard halfway down the street - but they’re already miles better than the last batch. Alex thinks it best not to speak of the last batch.  

“I can’t believe you just called yourself a ‘himbo boytoy’.” Alex is wheezing with laughter, and Henry’s stubborn chewing, his failing attempt to look dramatically offended while crunching on a cookie the texture of a brick, only makes it harder to stop laughing. “Those are your words, not mine.” 

He deigns not to mention that while he has been busy with important law shit all week, Henry has been busy baking cookies. And being really bad at it. That’s definitely Kenergy. 

Henry sighs and washes down the remains of the tragic cookie with tea. “You’re not seeing my vision, love. You would really make an excellent Ken. And I would make an excellent Barbie.” 

“Damn,” Alex says. “We must already be in Barbie’s Dreamhouse because… uh. Keep dreaming.” 

“That… was a truly terrible comeback.” 

Alex sighs. “Yeah. They can’t all be winners.” 

Henry nods gravely. “I’d say this proves my point. You’re Ken, and I’m Barbie.”

It most definitely does not prove anything. “If you’re Barbie,” Alex says, “then you’re definitely Depression Barbie watching the Pride & Prejudice movie like a million times.” 

Henry apparently doesn’t have a response to that except indignant spluttering. Alex laughs so hard he wakes up David. He almost falls off the couch laughing when Henry responds with: “How dare you, I am clearly Irrepressible Thoughts of Death Barbie!” 

Then they’re both laughing, while David watches them in utter confusion. 

“Alright,” Alex says once he has calmed down. “Fair enough. But we can’t both be Barbie!”

“Why not, though?” Henry counters. 

“It’s a couples costume!”

“Well,” Henry says. “Two Barbies can love each other! It’s the 21st century!” 

Alex tries to sigh but it comes out as more laughter. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Gay rights for Barbie or whatever. But two Barbies won’t be as recognizable as a couples costume. People will just think we’re two people who independently decided to dress up as Barbie!” 

“Alright.” Henry picks up his phone. “I’m settling this once and for all.” 

“What? Who are you calling?”

That question is quickly answered. The dial tone only rings twice before the call goes through, and Pez’s voice fills the living room. “Well, if it isn’t my second favourite disgraced royal. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Henry wastes no time on niceties. “Pez. Out of Alex and me, who is Barbie and who’s Ken?”

Pez doesn’t even take a moment to consider it. He just says, “Darling, you’re definitely Ken.” 

Ha! Told you, Alex mouths, his face lighting up in a vindictive grin. 

“That is the wrong answer,” Henry tells Pez, whose laughter comes out a little tinny through the phone speakers. 

“Oh come on, you know I’m right,” Pez says. “Or perhaps I just really want to see your boyfriend's magnificent arse in that Barbie-pink pantsuit. You know, the one Margot Robbie wears in the film?” 

More indignant spluttering from Henry. “Pez, you’re on speaker.”

“Oh good, I hoped I was,” Pez replies. “Hello, Alex! I look forward to seeing your Barbie costume. Do come to me if you need help putting it together. Toodles!"

And then he hangs up. Henry glares at the screen like he can magically will Pez to come back and take his side this time. 

“Well, you heard him,” Alex says, not even trying to hide his laughter. 

Henry huffs and shoves the phone back in his pocket. “Well, who made him the expert, anyway?”

“Pretty sure you did, when you called to get his opinion. To, you know-” Alex clears his throat and puts on his best Henry impression- “settle this, once and for all.” 

Presumably at a loss for words, Henry picks up another cookie and, with considerable effort, bites into it. There’s nothing more to say, anyway. They both know Alex has won. 

“Besides,” Alex says, holding up his phone to show Henry the transaction on the screen. “I already ordered the “I am Kenough” hoodie in your size, sweetheart.”

[leclerc-s]

the blue - part eight

series masterlist // previous // next

zendaya amelia grace holland be honest. how many songs ave you written about oscar?

amelia holland

sam holland the better question is how many songs have you written about fake scenarios in your head?

amelia holland oh that one's easy at least five. this month. i've got a really good one called i should hate you, i wrote that one with aaron.

tuwaine barrett DID CHARLES HELP PRODUCE THIS AGAIN??

amelia holland i think he almost shit himself when he found out aaron was also producing this one. tuwaine barrett CHAMELIA MY BELOVED! GET THIS MAN ON STAGE WITH TAYLOR FOR A SURPRISE SONG! amelia holland he's been on my ass about that to. did you team up with him or something? tuwaine barrett why? did he say someting?

harry holland speaking of charles, how's texas? is it fun?

amelia holland it's hot as fuck.

amelia holland you're in texas now? any plans on coming home?

amelia holland kinda promised oscar and lando that i'd stick around for the triple header. there's a week off in between vegas and brazil but lando's birthday is a few days before vegas and abu dhabi is the next weekend. so i'm not sure. might be home for a couple days at most.

harrison osterfield it's almost like oscar's career is monopolizing all of your time

sam holland for the record none of us have problem with it. this is the first time in a long time we've seen you happy. if traveling with oscar makes you happy, do it. harrison's being a dick, ignore him. but like also please come home for the holidays?

amelia holland is that his default setting? - danny ric

amelia holland sorry about that, the fake american took my phone.

amelia holland real american here, is that his default setting? - logan sargeant

amelia holland charles here! is that his default?

amelia holland this group is tragic. ours is much more fun - max

amelia holland I CAN FINALLY STOPPED BE CALLED NORIZZ BECAUSE CLEARLY THE SECOND STRING LOSER HAS LESS THAN ME! - LANDO

amelia holland i would never piss a songwriter off because you'll be branded as the second string loser for the rest of your life. - pierre

amelia holland i swear they’re normally house-trained - oscar

amelia holland he's lying - alex

tom holland YOU HAVE A GROUPCHAT WITH THEM??

amelia holland it's quite fun. murder is threatened at least 3 times a day and lestappen is in full force. it is no just for the camera, i genuinely think they're in love with each other

amelia holland yuki’s quite violent, in case anyone was wondering. he may be pocket sized but he holds a lot of rage

harry holland and who exactly is in this group chat and why haven’t we been invited?

amelia holland the twitch quartet, max, daniel, yukierre, estie bestie and his two husbands, twinkclaren, and me

harrison osterfield you call your boyfriend a twink?

amelia holland it’s a term of endearment - lando

amelia holland she calls lando a fucking weenie and she called someone a weird second string loser, so i’m okay with twink - oscar

amelia holland WE'RE KIDNAPPING AMELIA! WE'RE IN TEXAS BABY! - DANNY RIC

amelia holland SAVE US! - CHARLES & MAX

ameliaholland posted new stories

someone's super excited to be back in texas COTA! pre-quali look with oscaroo. he's not happy at the moment, says it's too hot to be in texas. i agree. :) logan said he knew a place and took us to cane's. clearly one of them is happy to be here.

ameliaholland the plans made it out of the group chat, so when in texas...

tagged: oscarpiastri, lilymhe, francesca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, danielricciardo, landonorris, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, alex_albon, logansargeant, yukitsunoda, pierregasly, georgerussell63, estebanocon, mickschumacher, lancestroll

view all comments

tuwaine I HAVE NEVER WANTED TO BE IN TEXAS SO BAD

↳ ameliaholland you're missing out so bad tuwaine

tomholland2013 AMELIA GRACE HOLLAND YOU BETTER NOT BE DRINKING!

↳ ameliaholland i'm not? there's a heineken in my hand? it's non alcoholic.

↳ landonorris she literally had shots with max. she's a liar.

↳ ameliaholland shut the fuck up norizz.

username oh god, i've never wanted to be apart of a friend group this bad

username thank goodness someone put boots on the correct way. if i saw another picture or video of the drivers with their jeans tucked into their boots i would riot.

↳ username i hope daniel scolded them for doing so.

samholland1999 PUT SOME PANTS ON AMELIA!

↳ ameliaholland I AM WEARING PANTS! IT'S CALLED SHORTS DINGBAT! IT'S HOT IN TEXAS

username now this is a group i never thought i would see hanging out. at least not all of them together.

username this is so iconic of them wtf?

georgerussell63 i have never met someone who can out drink max, please join us the next time we go out.

↳ harryholland64 did not know my little sister can out drink max verstappen but i'm somehow proud?

↳ username this just in, something max verstappen is not good at doing, out drinking amelia holland.

lilymhe we have to do this again!

↳ francesca.cgomes we do!

↳ alexandrasaintmleux oh, we should

↳ ameliaholland give me a time a place and i'll be there!

↳ carmenmundt count me in too! i would love to meet amelia.

↳ username icons meeting other icons, love to see it.

finish the lyrics with lando norris and oscar piastri

comments

user we were robbed of cowboy oscar!

user lando and the holland brothers being the captains of the oscar x amelia ship is so funny to me

user but who did lando call a dick and why?

↳ user probably harrison, if the context clues we've been provided are anything to go by.

↳ user lando has been their biggest defender since day 1 and i stand by that

user was i the only one who caught that brocedes reference?

↳ user lando knew what he was doing making that joke.

user lando casually wanted to remind everyone that oscar's brother-in-law is spider-man.

↳ user had to quickly flex on spidey's biggest fan, estie.

user and to think this whole joke started because of a taylor song.

user HE CALLED HIM A MUPPET!! THIS IS MONUMENTAL!

user lando is oscar and amelia's biggest defender, you can't change my mind.

↳ user it's oscmelia girl, get it right.

↳ user you're right my bad, terribly sorry.

harrison osterfield i don't exactly appreciate your friend and boyfriend calling me a dick online.

amelia holland and i didn't appreciate being strung along for almost 2 years...

sam holland HOW LONG?

tom holland but he was with his ex for almost a year?

tuwaine barrett oh damn

harry holland you have got to be fucking kidding me harrison.

zendaya never trust blonde men with blue eyes

amelia holland what about max and logan? zendaya never trust blonde men with blue eyes whose name starts with an h or a j. those two you can trust.

tom holland by the way how's oscar doing? we watched the race.

amelia holland a bit bummed about the dnf but that's the way things go in this sport. besides it's not like it can get any worse than this.

TWO HOURS LATER

amelia holland HOW COULD I BE SO FUCKING WRONG?!

ameliaholland posted new stories

💋 i'm totally going to lose tonight... you're looking at the winner of the bowling tournament. it was luck really, but operation cheer up charles and oscar was a success.

taglist: @six-call @1nt3rnetgf @fernandoswarcrimes @skynel09 @arieltwvdtohamflash @Mimolovescookies @brekkers-whore @natcha888 @camdensreg @mycenterfold @woozarts @dear-fifi @tygecjjd @cataf1 @nothaqks @caipng @nataliambc @formulaal @lichterfee @prongsvault @kaa212 @anxxiousaries @julesbabey1 @julesbabey @georgeparisole @hobiismyhopeu @melissayalene @nikfigueiredo @bella-1 @nichmeddar @namgification @anniemae299

strikethrough means i couldn't tag you

¡leclerc-s speaks! just when you think he can't get any worse, he does! i have very strong opinions about texas, in case that wasn't obvious. texas was my breaking point + brazil, in case you couldn't tell who my favorite drivers were, you do now.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

[littlemonday]

So much of the difference in player response to the Emperor vs. Raphael comes down to aesthetics.

I’ve been seeing a lot of fan posting of Raphael lately, which is honestly fine. I enjoy seeing fan creations on all the characters. But I feel like I need to address something that is, for me, rather glaring in the fandom. Raphael is a pretty popular character, while the Emperor gets so much hate posting I’ve had to block users and entire groups on other sites because it was so over the top. These characters are functionally quite similar in the game, but the disparity in how they’re each perceived couldn’t be more different.

Both characters need to form an alliance with the main character. Both characters need the main character to defeat the brain. Both characters are willing to manipulate the main character to meet their own ends. But, one character is a conventionally attractive middle aged man, and the other is a humanoid squid monster. (How many times have we all seen posts about how upset someone was when their hot dream guardian turned out to be the squid monster?)

Not only is Raphael conventionally attractive, but he stays that way when he reveals himself as a devil.The Emperor presents himself as someone the main character would trust, but when he’s finally revealed, he bears no resemblance to the facade he was wearing - a facade that he sincerely believed was necessary to keep himself safe and to win your trust. Raphael is quite literally the handsome devil. His ascended form barely makes an appearance, but even so that form is not alien. It’s devilish, but not alien, and “alien” unlike devilish, invokes a deeply discomforting fear of the unknown.

Raphael is all opulence and performance, wearing tailored clothing and living in a grandiose house that hides the horrors of what happens there until late into act 3. While the mind flayer colonies by comparison are grotesque organisms that look like the inside of a body, and the Emperor’s home is a bare bones cellar with the last remaining keepsakes of his former life. The chains he uses to hold his victims are right out in the open.

Raphael is like an old school campy Disney villain who tries to entertain you all while openly admitting that he wants you to come to him when you’re desperate and all hope is gone. And like those old Disney villains, he just enjoys being evil. He even comes with his own villain song that he sings. He enjoys your suffering. He’s openly playing with his food. The Emperor does try to seduce you, but mostly tries to appeal to your pragmatism and empathy. However, he doesn’t have Disney villain camp to help him out here. He embodies all the body horror and fear over the player's loss of humanity by virtue of him being a mind flayer. He does have a song, but most of us miss it on our first play through and don’t hear its tragic lyrics.

Raphael, and this one is perhaps the most frustrating to me, imprisoned and tortured Hope for years! He takes advantage of people, including orphans, and gets them to sign away their souls for eternal torment in exchange for something they desperately want or need in life. While the Emperor has that one infamous cutscene in which we see him enthrall Stelmane, but it comes on the heels of the player dehumanizing and provoking him. A lot of players will refer to this as a “call out” and a “mask off” moment, which is very disingenuous framing. It’s frustrating that so few players never seem to consider the deeper role their choices may play in triggering this scene: you treat him like an inhuman monster, and you get an inhuman monster. Players will complain all the time about how the Emperor manipulates you and lies about everything, but apparently in this one scene he’s suddenly being completely honest and not manipulating you? So many never consider the possibility of confirmation bias when it comes to this character.

As I said, this cutscene is an obvious threat, but I know that just because he’s threatening you, it doesn’t mean there’s no truth to what you’re seeing. However, it also doesn’t mean that this is somehow “the truth” as so many players seem to think it is. I’ll write more on this in another post, but there’s just not enough information in the game to make definitive conclusions on their relationship. And I bring this up because I don’t see anywhere near the outrage over Hope as I see over Stelmane.

Then there’s Ansur. The Emperor killed his love, Ansur, out of self defense (we know this from Ansur himself), and for a lot of players, this was what solidified their hatred for the Emperor, and they will endlessly hate post about it. Raphael, on the other hand, never killed any of his loves. But the reason he never killed any of his loves is because he’s never loved anyone. He’s incapable of it, and anyone he has killed was, at best, a mere tool for his use.

Which brings me to my next point, even though both characters are trying to manipulate you to their own ends, only the Emperor sees you as more than a means to an end. Raphael does not. In fact, I wrote a lot of words on this very topic.

I’ve had people tell me that they like Raphael more because he’s upfront with his intentions, while the Emperor isn’t. That’s not entirely true. The Emperor tells you he wants his freedom, even tells you the power he uses to protect you is power he’s stolen, but he goes to great lengths to hide his identity, where Raphael barely goes to any lengths at all. As I said, the Emperor sincerely believes he must do this to protect himself. He likes to puff his chest out, but he’s quite aware of his own vulnerability, so he lives a life in which he’s constantly hiding and disguising himself. He’s surviving, as he puts it in the end. Raphael is essentially a prince in the Hells who wields a lot of power, and whatever vulnerabilities he might have are well protected. Whatever difference this makes is not enough to justify the gulf in how much hate the Emperor receives versus how little Raphael does.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this is not me saying that you have to like one character or dislike another. That’s personal, and I’m not going to waste time telling people how to feel. So please don’t take away from this that I want to see more hate posting about Raphael. I don’t! Please don’t hate post about any characters, and if you absolutely must, please don’t use character tags to do so. What I am saying is that there’s a clear double standard in this fandom, and I want more players to engage with this media in a way that is both empathetic and analytical. I think both of those things together can prevent a lot of toxicity.

[nerves-nebula]

No ok but fr seeing most of Miguel’s fandom presence be centered around him being hot or evil is so funny to me. Like I expected it but to me he’s just a very sad dad who is coping soooo poorly. Like an angrier version of Peter B Parker from the first movie.

Remember when they tied up miles in the first movie cuz they didn’t think he was good enough yet?? Like that kinda.

We first see Miguel watching recordings of his daughter it is sooo TRAGICCC. My man is a sad grieving dad and he’s so bogged down by guilt and he’s expressing that SOOOO POORLY. I love himmm he’s just as tragic as spot cuz they’re both causing problems for themselves and starting beef with a teen about it.